Locus
by PinkFreud
Summary: Outside, he has a perfect, icy control. Inside, he is shaken, and he has her to thank for that. Jackson/Lisa
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Locus**

**Rating: T**

**Summary:** Outside, he has a perfect, icy mask of control. Really, inside, he feels completely shaken and at the mercy of everything. She is somehow his anchor. Poss. JxL

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Authors Note: **I was inspired to write this by a couple of things...first, while learning this past semester in Psych class about internal versus external loci of control, and the way that I interpreted both Jackson and Lisa's characters while watching the film. Especially the scene when they have that little exchange before she gives him a tracheotomy with a pen: ''I've been trying to convince myself of one thing, over and over.'' ''That it was beyond your control''. ''No...that it would **never** happen again.'' I might have read too much into it...but here's my interpretation, which I'll probably continue. Enjoy.

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He doesnt really get himself, to begin with. One minute he thinks hes ok, he will be fine, and the next there is a blinding icy wave of something that feels like terror cross bred with nausea. He likes to talk to himself inside his head, repeating random poems and words like mantras to stay calm. He dosent really get why hes feeling this way.

He always stays numb, he likes it. He likes to freeze himself on the inside while he goes through the motions of the job, almost dissociated from whatever hes doing. He does not care, at least that is what he says. Some people guess hes a sociopath, because hes got that charming evilness. Actually, thats wrong, for a couple of reasons. For one, they arent even really called that anymore. Its an Antisocial Personality Disorder, and theres a hell of a lot of criteria one has to meet before they can be given that label. He does not meet all of the criteria, not even close.

He feels remorse, and thats key. Hes tried to chain up the remorse, slap duct tape over its screaming mouth, and hide it in some attic in his soul. It always manages to escape, though.

He likes to tell himself that he has no choice; no choice in anything he does. Its fate. He shouldnt, but hes got an external locus of control. Everything happens _to_ him. He doesnt get Existentialism, he doesnt believe that you create your own fate, which is a fairly dangerous belief for someone in his line of work.

On the outside, though, hes perfectly controlled. He manipulates the situation to his advantage, but really somewhere down within him, there is complete and utter chaos begging to be loosed. He knows his foundations are easily shaken, and the mask of calm power and dominance that he puts on is a worn out persona that can easily falter.

He has never really loved anyone or anything. He has _liked_; he has many likes. He likes violin music and Ernest Hemingway novels. He likes Japanese food, he likes red wine. He likes Venice and Tokyo, he likes the Gulf of Mexico; he likes green eyes, especially on a woman. However, he never loves any of these things. Because he learned long ago, that the more you love something, the quicker it is taken away. Love equals loss and pain. He stays in ''like'' with things because there is not as much emotion involved.

He wishes sometimes that things were different. He sometimes lays awake in bed at night and thinks about time travel, wondering if it were possible. If it were possible, he would jump in a machine and go back five years before it all went to shit.

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She doesnt believe in fate, not to the extent he does, anyway. Shes got a internal locus of control, shes calling the shots. If something goes wrong, its because she made a mistake, an error in judgement. She wasnt always this way, but circumstance forced her to change her way of thinking.

After the incident in the parking lot, she went semi-crazy, suffering flashbacks and panic attacks. There were nightmares and daymares, times when she was so afraid that she could barely breathe. And then one day she looked at herself in the mirror, at what she had become: this little, pale woman with huge, haunted eyes, rain thin and delicate. She looked as if she would shatter into a million pieces with the slightest touch. And then she decided ''never again.'' She swore that she would never be a victim.

She tried to forget about what had happened, she forced it into the back of her mind. She refused to maintain the ''victim'' mentality. She watched girl-power movies, she took self-defense classes. She walked down the street with her head up, instead of folding into herself whenever she passed someone.

Men bothered her, though. She didnt date, but she told herself that was her choice, not because she was still scared. She had her job, it kept her busy. She didnt mind being a loner, at least thats what she repeated to herself. She was fine in her apartment, reading books and watching movies late at night.

Yeah, shes fine this way. She doesnt need anything. Her dad always asks her if shes ok. It bothers her to no end. When he asks her that, it makes her feel small, as if she needs taking care of. Its as if he wants her to say, ''no, I need help''. She knows why he acts like that; its because he needs to feel like shes still his little girl. He had that father-thing where he felt as though he could stop everything bad from happening to her, keep her safe from the world.

He felt doubly bad because he couldnt stop what had happened to her. Fathers were supposed to protect their daughters. He felt like he had failed and thats why he asks her over and over again if shes ok. He subconsciously wants her to say no, so he can fix something for her. Its the least he can do, he figures.

But shes strong, and shes resilient. She can take care of herself. She sometimes fantasizes about killing the man who hurt her. She knows maybe she shouldnt, that its a little bit morbid, but she figures she has the right. She has the right to be morbid and dark; she has the right to imagine stabbing her rapist over and over again in a symbolic act of violent penetration.

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When her grandmother died, she felt that she had lost something more than a relative. She felt like she had lost steadiness, lost the balance she so desperately tried to keep; the sense of control. It was a silly thing, but her grandmother had been a constant in her life, ever since she was a child. In some odd way, when she died, Lisa was reminded, if only for a moment, that she could not control everything. She did not spin the web of humanity, she was not omnipotent.

After the funeral, relatives and friends of the family milled around, drinking cheap wine and eating and talking. Things that the dead would never do again, but that were done at funerals out of a sense of strange mortal duty; an odd way for those left behind to prove that they still lived, still breathed, still needed food. It comforted them.

Lisa stood looking at her grandmothers things: at the photographs, the throw pillows on the ugly-coloured sofa, at the paintings by Georgia O Keefe that hung on the walls. She had never before felt such a sense of biting aloneness.

Her mother was miserable and distant, and Lisa had felt farther away from her at that moment than ever before.

She couldnt wait to get out of there, and when she finally managed to pull away from all the distant relatives and friends-of-the-family who were suffocating her, Lisa walked out of the house and into the dark night, breathing fresh air, feeling as empty and silent as the sky.

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A cell phone rang amid the din of the airport, and nobody heard it except one man. He was waiting for this call.

''Are you sure?'' he asked.

The voice on the other end of the line gave a scratching, irritated sigh that sounded remarkably like a hiss. ''Yes, Im _sure_. She just got into the cab. Shes on her way.''

''I still think I should have gone myself.''

''Why in the hell are you so obsessed with this one? I can _handle_ it, Jackie. You'll see her soon''.

Jackson Rippner felt a lurch of violent anger arise at the stupid nickname, and the condescending, stupid voice which spoke it. ''I hope so. For your sake''. Jackson ended the call then, making sure that he had the last word. He sat down to wait then, repeating the same useless words and phrases to himself; a mask, an illusion of perfect, icy control.

Inside, he is dying. Inside, he is afraid. He is falling to pieces, and there will be noone there to put him back together. He closes his eyes and tries to focus, but mocking voices swim out of the sea in his mind where he has sublimated them, forced them under. They will not be chained. They are the voices of his fear, his hesitance, his lack of security in his own soul personified. They shriek and scream and scold in a sad symphony, a terrible chorus.

He tapped his foot on the floor in a kind of empty rythmn. There was no echo at all, it was flat. Flat and barren as the desert of his soul, which came alive in the cold night with a thousand terrible living things, all hungry and horrible, with flashing teeth that looked like the blades of a knife.

He was very nearly praying, sweat was beading in his hair, it was hanging damply against his face and neck. He was very nearly praying that she would soon arrive, and he didn't know why.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating, I've been really busy. Thank you to everyone who reviewed.

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Lisa was standing in line, momentarily lost in the music pouring into her ears through her MP3 player. Led Zeppelin's classic, ''Stairway to Heaven'' was swallowing some of the grief that still sat like a stone in her belly. The brightness of the airport helped somewhat, as well.

This was something that Lisa had in common with the man standing behind her, but she didn't know it yet. She did not know _him_ yet. But he knew her.

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_The need for bright, harsh light to feel safe had begun one night when Jackson was 10 years old. His mother and father were arguing. Again. Usually, Jack could drown it out with music, or occasionally through sheer force of will, but this night was different. Jackson was sitting at the small desk in his bedroom, dutifully finishing his English homework. He was a very smart boy, always at the top of his class. Not that his parents cared at all. But Jack was not bitter, he just kept working hard, with the naive belief that it would eventually pay off. He did not really have very many friends at school, but he was adored by nearly all of his teachers._

_The loud sound of his mother and father arguing continued. Jack concentrated on what he was doing, he put one letter in front of the other to form the sentences that completed his book report. The sounds of fighting slowly escalated to a hideous climax. There was the sound of feet moving heavily across a floor. A scream, then, pierced the air; a horrible, nearly inhuman sound. It was Jack's mother, screaming. Then--BANG! The gunshot nearly knocked Jackson off of his chair, though it had been fired on the floor below him. There was a dull sort of thud then, the grim and unmistakable sound of a body falling to the floor._

_Jack sat numb and frozen, his clammy fingers still clutching the yellow number two pencil like a lifeline. It broke in his hand then, from the strength of his grip. The two halves fell to the floor. Jackson's stomach had dropped out of him, and there was a feeling like icy little pinpircks all along his arms and legs and scalp. He realized that he was holding his breath._

_There was a tremulous silence; a pause. A blank spot in the terrible aura that pervaded the house. A moment more, then a second gunshot cut the air like a knife. Another body fell. Jackson Rippner was an orphan. _

_He knew what had happened, somehow. And he knew that he had to take care of it. He drew in a breath. Scarcely aware that he was moving at all, he padded numbly down the hallway in sock-clad feet to the staircase. Each slow step seemed to take an eternity as he descended to the first floor, feeling like he was lowering himself to the ninth circle of hell. _

_Jackson kept his eyes straight ahead. He wouldn't dare look at the bodies of his parents that he knew were stretched out grotesquely on the floor. No, he would not. As he moved for the phone, he forced himself to revisit today's history class at school. What had they learned about? He was only a few feet away now, he could see the phone on the wall. Ah, yes, they learned about Benjamin Franklin. He wrote an--what was the word? A book that talked about weather and stuff--about another few inches--an almanac, that was right! Poor Richard's Almanac. Good job, Jack. _

_He lifted up the reciever and dialed. After telling the woman at the police station what had happened, he hung up the phone. The police were already on their way, because apparently a neighbor had heard the fighting and the gunshots, and called. Jack realized then that it was dark. Not only was it dark outside, but there were very few lights on inside the house, either. For whatever reason, he was terrified by this lack of light, and lack of sound other than his own shallow breathing. _

_He felt that he was somehow shut in a tomb, this house was a tomb, now--with its silence, and dim light, and death all around--Jackson bolted out of the kitchen where he was standing, and ran for the nearest safe place, which was, oddly enough, the bathroom. Jackson flipped on the light and curled up on the tile floor. The bright, harsh lighting bathed him, protected him. He thought about that day at school again. _

_He thought about recess, and how the other kids teased him because of his name. ''Jack the Ripper!'' they would yell, and point, and the little girls in his grade would scream and run the other way in mock-horror. Jackson looked up Jack the Ripper in an encyclopedia, because he didn't know who that was, or why it was a bad thing to be called. Then he learned. Jack the Ripper killed people. _

_The sirens came screaming along down the street, and soon the police broke through the door and flooded in with noise. A lady police officer found Jackson curled up on the floor in the bathroom, in pajamas and socks that were soaked in the blood he had stepped in, unknowingly. She carried him out to an ambulance that was waiting. She smelled like roses._

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Jackson Rippner stared at the woman in front of him. Lisa Reisert. For whatever sick reason, he felt safe around her. How bizarre was that? How utterly twisted? _HE_ felt safe around _her_. He was about to ruin her life, he was sure. He would threaten her, terrify her, do whatever he had to to finish this job. Because this job was special. It had been made perfectly clear to Jackson that if he was to fail--he would be killed.

Ever since he had begun surveillance on this woman eight weeks before, he had felt an odd kind of closeness to her. An almost---what? Admiration? Longing? Maybe that was it. She was so...so something he did not have a word for. She seemed so strong, so together. Even on those occasions when he watched her cooking scrambled eggs in the middle of the night, watching stupid reruns of _I Love Lucy_, or whatever was on, he sensed tremendous strength and resolve even through the apparent loneliness she felt.

He saw the books she read, an odd, eclectic mix of things: some stupid self-help books, _The da Vinci Code, _a biography of Kurt Cobain, a text on art history, something about hotel management, Anne Rice's _Interview With a Vampire, _and something by Nora Roberts. He saw the music she listened to, knew what kind of shampoo she used...he probably knew her better, more intimately than most people ever had. Probably more intimately than he should have. But he couldn't stop himself. It was a compulsion. He had to know all about her. He wanted to.

He felt sick when he realized that she was everything that he would never, and could never, have. He felt even worse realizing that a woman that amazing and beautiful wouldn't be alone for long. And that there would be someone there with her, at night. Someone...not him. And that made him crazy. He wanted to have her see him. He wanted her to really look at him, just once, before he ruined her life.


	3. Chapter 3

''Save you a seat?'' Jackson asked, a bit more hopefully than he would have liked. He wanted cool and charming, not desperate. Damn. She was staring at him with those huge, lovely hazel eyes. ''Ah, I...''

She was stammering slightly. He could tell that she was trying to politely decline.

''I'm sorry,'' he offered lamely, ''I just thought, since we're on the same flight...''

''No, I just have...a few calls to make,'' she smiled beautifully, almost apologetically.

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Lisa sighed. She had just come from cleaning her clothes off in the bathroom after a woman spilled an iced mocha all down the front of her. She pushed her little suitcase along through the airport terminal and then paused. Her eyes traveled over to the bar, where she saw that same man she had met in line.

He was sitting there, alone. She waited a moment, then decided. She walked over to him.

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_Very nice eyes_, she thought. He seemed pleasant enough. Nice, good to talk to. Lisa felt rather at ease telling him about her grandmother, and divulging the rather embarrassing fact that her middle name was Henrietta. Moments passed comfortably by. Clocks were ticking somewhere, marking the time that was too short, far too brief.

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She saw him. For a few small moments, everything was ok. Everything was how it was supposed to be.

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Everything was wrong. So very wrong. Now, he was a dead man for sure. He wished that she had finished him off. Her killing him would have been much, much more pleasant than the fate which probably awaited him. Failure, failure. _''You failed, Jack''._ She spat his name with such contempt, then.

And he deserved it.

Now, Jackson was lying sprawled across the floor, with bullet wounds that were seeping blood, a hole in his leg from where Lisa had impaled him with the stiletto heel of her shoe. And, he couldn't forget his neck...where she had given him a tracheotomy with a pen._ Brilliant girl._ That was his favorite. Though he was in a hideous amount of pain, there was a kind of almost pleasant feeling all through him. And this led him to believe that he was probably delirious, or in some kind of shock. But no, as he lay there on the floor, he looked up at her. Lisa stared down at him, an unreadable expression on her lovely face. She was amazing. She was like nobody else in the world.

Fate must either hate him, or love him. He had failed, and that meant he was a dead man. Well, hell, maybe that was alright. At least now he did not have to lie anymore, pretend anymore. He could finally stop running. Maybe he should thank her? Jackson looked up at Lisa again, now, as the sirens outside screamed closer and closer, his thoughts were that he wanted to stay right here. Die right here, with her looking down at him. This was right; it was right that she had won. Because she was so much stronger than he was.

He did thank her, blearily, as he was being strapped to a stretcher and wheeled away. She looked slightly shaken, afterwords, her eyes following after him with unasked questions flickering within.

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''Seriously, Lisa, are you sure you're ok?'' Cynthia asked this, her huge eyes wide with concern, ''I mean...'' She trailed off. They were sitting on chairs in the lobby of the Lux Atlantic, where FBI personnel were still milling around after the events of that morning. It was near midnight. After talking to various law enforcement officials and filling out official reports and filing statements and all the necessary red tape, Lisa had finally told Cynthia the whole ugly story of what happened on the red eye flight, from start to finish.

The one thing about Lisa that had always astounded Cynthia was her ever-present calm. Her clear-headed sense of control. Like she could handle anything that came her way. And this was proof. Yet, Lisa seemed too calm, now, almost ridiculously so.

''Yes, I'm fine, Cynthia, I swear.''

''But,'' Cynthia blinked nervously, ''are you sure you don't want me to come over your place and stay with you, at least for tonight? Hey, we could watch cheesy 80s movies...I'll paint your toenails, we can be goofy, have some fun.''

Lisa smiled at her friend. Friend...why did that word sound so funny in her head all of a sudden, so foreign? ''No, thanks though, Cynthia...that does sound fun, but maybe some other time. I think I just...need to be by myself for awhile.''

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She opened the door to her apartment and flipped on the light. Her father had insisted on picking her up at the Lux and driving her home, much to Lisa's chagrin. Dear God in heaven, she was so, so sick to death of everyone asking her if she was ok. Like she was some small, breakable thing. She hated when they made her feel that way, even though Lisa knew that her father, and Cynthia, were just trying to show that they cared. But it wore her nerves down to shreds after awhile.

In her bathroom, Lisa peeled off her clothes and turned on the shower. Stepping under the hot spray, she realized just how much of a toll the day had taken on her, physically. Inspection revealed dozens upon dozens of bruises all along her legs and back, of varying sizes and colorations. _Probably from the fall down the stairs,_ she thought with a grimace.

Her head still ached, dully. The painkillers that the EMTs had given her were wearing off slightly. Lisa had plainly refused to go to the hospital and be checked out, she assured them over and over again _that she was **FINE. **_Why did nobody believe her?

_I bet if I told Jackson I was fine, he wouldn't push it. He would believe me._ The thought was real. It sang through her mind with a kind of perverse honesty as Lisa stood under the shower, naked and covered in thousands of bruises that this...man, this...criminal had given her, and here she was, thinking...what was she thinking? Almost on impulse, Lisa raised a hand to the spot where her head hurt the worst. _Was that from when he knocked me out, or when I knocked him down the stairs? _She couldn't tell. Both had caused pain in the exact same place.


	4. Chapter 4

Lisa had a dream that night, after she fell asleep in an old t-shirt with hair that was still soaking wet from her shower, and in the dream she was driving a car. She was driving this car down a highway somewhere. She was not sure the exact location, but it was either twilight or very early morning; it was impossible to tell whether the sun was rising or setting. There was a kind of in-between feeling to wherever she was.

There was a man in the passenger seat. It was him. Jackson. The strange thing was, though, that Lisa wasn't the slightest bit frightened of him, or even uncomfortable at all. It was like they were old friends. She turned and looked at him. ''Tell me honestly...'' she asked, ''and I know you will, because you never lie. Tell me, do you think I'm ok? I mean, do you think I'm weak?''

Jackson looked at her with a bemused kind of expression. Then he smiled a bit. ''Leese,'' he said, _and she loved the way he called her that, so easily, so casually._ ''I think you're more than ok. And no, you are not weak. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you are, or make you believe that you are.''

Lisa woke up then. She was smiling.

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_Trash...you're trash...worthless garbage. Can't even do one simple thing, one simple job, can you, Jackie? Idiot. Stupid, stupid boy. _

Jackson was unsure if he was hearing actual voices, or some grim hallucination. He was not even sure, for a few frightening moments, where he was. He was bleary and hideously disoriented from whatever drug he had been given. His tongue was numb, his head felt like a stone. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and was gripping at whatever shreds of lucidity he could possibly cling to.

What time was it? What day was it? He did not know.

_What about Keefe? He has to be taken care of._

_Send someone to finish it. _

_What about her?_

_The girl? Lisa Reisert? She has to be taken care of, too._

_That wasn't part of the deal._

_It wasn't part of the deal until this dumb motherfucker screwed us. Now it's integral. She has to go._

_What about Jackie?_

_He won't last long._

Three people were talking. They didn't know that Jackson was conscious. Neither did he, really, for a few delirious moments. He was sure he was dreaming. His mind recorded the conversation, somehow, before he fell back into black nothingness again, unable to fight back against the dark.

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So strange it is how, sometimes after you dream about someone, though you are apart from them physically, after you awaken you can feel them. Sense their prescence; smell them. It is as if you touch each other in dreams.

When Lisa woke up, the first thing that she thought of was Jackson. Possibly because she had dreamed about him, but there was somehow more to it than that. She was smiling. The strange dream had comforted her somewhat. And she felt awful about that. Part of her did, anyway. There was another part though, a piece of her mind, or perhaps her soul that seemed to want to hold his image in her mind. Why?

Was her subconscious trying to tell her something? Or was it simply the fact that she was a young woman who had been through a horrible ordeal, and her addled mind was trying to make some sense out of what had happened? Lisa had no idea. She leaned back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

Rain was tapping against the window. She could hear it, playing out a little symphony against the glass.

The clock radio turned on, then. Lisa's eyes flew open. They were playing ''Stairway to Heaven.'' It was her favorite verse, the one about the piper calling you to join him.

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Jackson was most definately awake now. He was still dizzy, and his various wounds still hurt like hell, but at least he could think clearly. He cracked an eye open and looked around. Hospital room. Private, obviously. Tubes, IVs, monitors, the usual medical garbage. Surprisingly, he wasn't restrained.

Pieces of an overheard conversation swam into his brain. Three voices, talking. Plotting, discussing.

_Send someone to finish it._ They were going to kill Keefe.

_She has to be taken care of, too._ They were going to kill Lisa.

_Won't last long_. They were going to kill him.

Jackson thought for a moment. Killing Keefe, that was acceptable. He would have done it himself. Killing Lisa, however, was not acceptable. That...he couldn't have done. This was truly strange. Because he failed in killing Keefe, his life was over. So was Lisa's. And so was Keefe's. It was like some kind of bizarre Greek tragedy.

The entire murderous plan, the plan to assassinate a high ranking government official, had been truly only dependant on one part, one unwitting player. Lisa. Somehow she was the center of the entire plot. She had to make the phone call. She had to get the room changed. There was a sick amount of trust placed in this woman by some very particularly evil people.

_It wasn't part of the deal until this dumb motherfucker screwed us. Now it's integral. She has to go._

They were going to kill Lisa. Beautiful, brave, smart Lisa.

_''When this is all over, I may have to steal you.''_ He remembered saying that to her. _When this is over, when this is---_

It would never be over.


	5. Chapter 5

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Lisa had been given time off from work after the ''incident,'' and she was not particularly happy about this, as most people in her position might have been. Rather, she was depressed. Lisa hated just being, not doing anything useful. She moved around the apartment, picking things up and putting them down. She switched on the TV, but after flipping through the channels and finding nothing satisfactory, turned it off again.

Her body was somehow still hyper-alert, she could hear even the couple on the floor above, and when one of them dropped something, even something small, Lisa felt as though a bomb had exploded next to her. ''This is _ridiculous_.'' She said this aloud, and was startled at the forcefullness of her own voice.

Lisa got up from where she had been sitting on the couch. She walked over to the stereo and turned it on to her favorite classic rock station. AC/DC's hit ''You Shook Me All Night Long'' was ending, and it gave way to ''Light My Fire'' by The Doors. Lisa started to dance a bit, to shake off some of the excess nervous energy that was still coursing through her veins.

She had not danced freely and crazily in years, and she was glad she was alone, because Lisa was sure that she looked completely ridiculous. Still in the t-shirt she had slept in, though it was near three in the afternoon, a very un-Lisa like way to behave, with hair flying madly about her face, she danced all around the apartment. Launching fully into the weird Jim Morrison shaman-dance that she had perfected years before, she sang along with the radio, belting _''Try to set the night on fiiiiiiiiiire!''_

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From outside the window, obscured by tree branches and rain, a man stood. Pale face wet, hair soaked and hanging in sopping dark tendrils, and a set of eyes that resembled illuminated, glowing ice, he stared in at the young woman as she danced.

Lisa was spinning and flipping herself round wildly; a kind of manic, spastic, awful dance that was still, somehow, graceful and lovely. Jackson could not tear his gaze from her; he was momentarily transfixed. But he did not stay that way for long, he simply could not. He had a job to do.

Moving painfully, moving softly, he started around the perimeter of the building and up to the front door. The entrance to her apartment faced the street, lucky for him. Locked doors caused no problem either. He was a criminal, an expert one. Still, though, he probably was not thinking the most clearly at that particular point in time. There were stitches probably pulling loose from several wounds on his person, as well as sore, aching limbs that should have been rested for longer than they had--but oh, well. There was no rest for the wicked or weary. Or--the wicked _and_ weary, as he was, as he had become.

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Lisa whirled a few more times, then, panting and dizzy, she tried to stagger over to the couch as the song ended. Bob Dylan came on, singing a mournful, creepy tune called ''It's All Over Now, Baby Blue.'' Lisa gulped in a few deep breaths of air and sat down on the arm of the sofa. Her face was flushed to a lovely pink hue. Her hair, which had dried during the night into pretty, wild curls, hung down in strands now damp with sweat. Her oversized Pink Floyd t-shirt clung to her attractively.

Breathing into the empty apartment, Lisa listened to Dylan's voice as it mixed with the sound of more rain beginning to drum urgently against the windows. ''_The vagabond who's rapping at your door, is standing in the clothes that you once wore. The sky too is folding under you. And it's all over now, baby blue.''_

Then, with an ugly sort of creak, the door to Lisa's apartment swung open. She barely had time to get up from the sofa, she was so startled. Things began to move in a sort of strange, soupy slow-motion. Her insides were shaken, whirred as if in a blender. Her stomach dropped clean out of her, as icy goosebumps worked their way over her skin. Dizzy, dizzy. Was she hallucinating? No. Lisa shook her head, as if to clear it, but still the vision remained.

Jackson. As if summoned forth by some terrible place inside her, the secret place from which her most dark and ugly wishes and desires came, here he was. Standing there, dripping water all over the floor, looking like some sort of hideously beautiful demon. His long dark hair was plastered to his pale face; a face grown more thin, with cheekbones more angular and defined, but still coldly, delicately attractive. He wore clothes that must have been borrowed, or rather, probably stolen was the more accurate term, because they hung too loosely on his thin frame. Around his wrist, there still dangled a hospital bracelet. His neck was bandaged. And, Lisa noticed, there were small patches of blood forming under his shirt, where stitches must have pulled out.

He looked oddly wild and desperate. In pain, too, by the looks of it. And yet--my God---those eyes. Bright icy blue, lit up with an almost inhuman sort of glow. They stared inside her, and she felt her soul sting and burn. He simply stood there a moment, as if he had prepared and memorized something to say at this moment, but now that it had arrived, he was struck dumb by some odd sort of stage-fright. It _was _real.

Lisa's voice cut the silence like a sharp blade. ''You're hurt.'' It was terribly obvious that he was hurt--_she _was the one who had hurt him. And yet, here she was, expressing concern for the man who had tried to kill her and had now broken into her home. Strangely enough, she was scarcely aware that she had even spoken, the words had simply seemed to fly from her mouth unbidden. They echoed in the stillness, and only then did Lisa really hear them.


	6. Chapter 6

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He was still staring at her, blinking. Droplets of rainwater fell from his eyelashes. Lisa moved over more closely to where Jackson was standing. She surveyed him with her hazel eyes and then reached out a hand to him. Oddly enough, he moved back slightly, almost as if he were afraid of what she might do to him. Or was that look of nervousness, possibly even fear in his strange eyes a trick of the light?

He spoke. ''You--you have to...'' he paused a minute. She was still staring at him, damn her. There was a curious expression on her face; it could be concern, it could also be pity. ''We have to get out. We have to leave.'' His voice was still raspy and gravely from the pen she had lodged in his throat. Lisa blinked. ''Why?'' she asked.

This was a truly ghastly and ridiculous situation. A mess unlike anything he'd ever experienced was slowly forming, and it was getting worse every moment that they stood just staring at each other. ''Because,'' Jackson said, trying to narrow his eyes at her, make himself look menacing, ''they're coming for you. They're going to kill you, because of what happened. Because I--I--'' he swallowed hard, ''because I failed.''

He didn't look menacing, and he didn't look threatening. He looked pathetic and in pain. Lisa did not really seem terribly shocked by this news, her face remained placid and quietly thoughtful for a few moments, before she said, ''Come on, sit down.'' She gestured to the couch, and Jackson, seeing no other real alternative, obliged, setting his aching, bleeding body down on the sofa. Lisa stood a moment, looking at him, as if trying to decide what to do next.

''Take off your shirt,'' she said. Her voice was had suddenly become brisk and no-nonsense. ''Huh?'' Jackson asked her sharply, ''what?'' A small, strange smile curved at the corners of Lisa's mouth for a moment, then vanished as quickly as it had come. ''You're _bleeding_,'' she said, matter-of-factly, ''you've probably pulled out all your stitches.'' Lisa turned then, walked out of the room, then returned a few moments later with a First Aid Kit. She knelt down beside Jackson, who had removed the stolen, oversized, blood-stained shirt from his body. His chest looked like a war zone, with the two bullet wounds from the previous day's ordeal still seeping blood, and numerous other scars from other jobs, some faded, some more new-looking.

He hissed in pain as her hand touched him, and jerked back away from her. ''Sorry,'' she said, ''I'll try to be more careful.'' Her face looked truly apologetic, and that made Jackson extraordinarily confused. She should be _trying_ to hurt him, shouldn't she? She shouldn't be concerned for his welfare. Lisa also had made no kind of attempt to scream or fight, injure him, run for the phone...no, she was taking care of him, as if he _mattered_.

The radio was still on, and music was playing, filling the strange silence. The Who's song, ''Behind Blue Eyes,'' flooded the apartment like rushing water. Lisa was concentrating on delicately removing a blood-soaked bandage from Jackson's shoulder. As she worked, she sang along with the music softly, ''_noone knows what it's like, to be the bad man. To be the sad man, behind blue eyes.'' _Her cool, slim fingers worked their way over his skin, and Jackson shuddered involuntarily. ''Sorry again,'' Lisa said, without even looking at his face and realizing that his reaction has nothing at all to do with pain.

''Listen,'' Jackson made his voice firm and full of steel, ''we have to hurry. They'll know I'm gone, and then it'll all go to shit very fast.'' Lisa paused and looked up at him. ''Where do we go?''

Jackson was entirely unprepared for this. He had been readying himself for a long battle to get her to come with him; to have to scare her, threaten her, force her into compliance. This was all wrong. Now he was off-center, he had lost all footing, all higher ground he had gained. He had become...what? He had become, maybe...what he truly was, deep down inside. And that was a man that had forced himself not to think or feel for too long, to suppress and sublimate things so much that his dreams at night were so vivid and sad and violent that he sometimes woke up screaming, and screamed for five long minutes before he could even realize where or when he was.

_''Noone knows what it's like, to feel these feelings, like I do.''_ The song played on. Jackson dug his fingernails into his palm. ''We should go...'' He trailed off. The sheer adrenaline that had gotten him out of the hospital and halfway across town was wearing off, leaving him feeling tired, blank, and hollow. Jackson felt drained, mentally, physically, and emotionally. He felt like a shell of a person; so unsure that he wondered if he could recognize his own face if he passed himself on the street.

''Jackson, it's alright.'' Lisa was staring at him, her eyes huge and lovely. Her hand rested lightly on his bare arm, and he felt genuine care seeping into his skin from her fingertips. ''We'll be ok.'' She said this to him reassuringly as she finished taping on a new bandage, then got to her feet and walked into her bedroom. _We?_ Like they were...what? Friends, aquaintences..._not_ mortal enemies...what?

''I tried to kill you, Leese.'' Jackson said this rather mournfully, half to himself. But Lisa heard him, and she appeared in the doorway. ''You _tried, _yes.'' She said this to him, and folded her arms across her chest, with a look of beautiful female strength and defiance on her features. ''And I tried to kill you, too. But here we are. For better or worse, we're here.'' And then she turned and vanished from sight again.


	7. Chapter 7

Tragedy implies that things could have been different. Things may not have ended in such doom and gloom and death had it not been for some sad and ugly twist of fate. Romeo and Juliet might have lived happily ever after if not for a grievous miscommunication. And similarly, one young couple in an airport might have met and had nachos and fell in love because of a delayed flight instead of plotting and decieving and trying to kill each other.

Fate, whatever one percieves that force to be, does have a funny way of giving second chances to those afflicted by painful circumstance. Yes, things _could_ have been different, however, they were not. Yet still, the underlying structure remains the same. It's up to those involved to work with what they have, and salvage what they can, making the best of it.

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They were driving, moving along rain-slick streets in a northern direction. The rainy, damp day had quickly become a rainy, muggy Florida night. Lisa was at the wheel, the window beside her was open, blowing in small showers of rainwater that cooled her skin. Her hair had curled intricately from the wet humidity, as it always did. She was wearing a black tank top and a pair of blue jeans; overall, she seemed lovely and put-together. There were however, a few scratches across her delicate, pale skin, vivid red lines against creamy whiteness. If one should inspect her more closely, they might see some interesting-colored bruises along her exposed arms, and if her shirt were to be pulled down slightly, an ugly sort of scar would be visible on her chest.

However, Lisa did not seem to care very much about how she looked, she was concentrating simply on the wet, dark road ahead of her, on the man sitting beside her in the passenger seat, and on her own puzzling and conflicted emotions.

''You ok, Jackson?'' she asked him. Her fingers tensed involuntarily as they held the steering wheel. He nodded slowly. He looked pretty dreadful. But aside from his obvious physical discomfort, there was something else that seemed off. Something in the way he behaved. He was so blank, so gray, so sad. He looked distressingly lost, like an abandoned child left out in the rain. There was no malice in his eyes now, really. Now anger, no vehemence. He didn't seem hostile, or violent, merely broken and slightly confused.

''Hey,'' Lisa said, ''why don't you close your eyes for a bit? You look tired.'' Jackson said nothing, but let his eyelids flutter closed. The events of the past few days, and their accompanying emotions, had drained him so very completely that the moment Jackson closed his eyes, he slid down into a dark pool of exahusted apathy whose waters quickly claimed him and pulled him under into an abyss of sleep.

Lisa was full of a kind of giddy adrenaline that made her tremble on the inside. Not really certain what, if anything, to think about the decisions she had made, she put off thinking completely, and went through her mind, attempting to find some discarded, meaningless factoid or poem or song lyric to cling to.

She wound up with, depressingly enough, a poem that she had read in college called ''Not Waving, But Drowning'' by Stevie Smith. _''I was much further out than you thought, and not waving, but drowning.''_ Sheesh, that was no good. Think of something else, Lisa ordered herself. A bizarre, sad memory wove it's way into the front of her mind. It was 1994. She had heard that Kurt Cobain had killed himself. Lisa sat in her room after recieving this news, crying to herself softly, simply hating the thought of the talented, sad, handsome young man dying hopeless and alone.

She had wrapped her arms around herself and wept hot tears for this man whom she had never physically met, yet whose words had meant so very, very much to her. She had written a poem for him, on a sheet of lined paper, and still carried it with her even as she grew up, went to college, graduated, had a job, and a life. The poem usually stayed tucked inside some book or another, marking this page or that, but it was always there. Lisa mometarily panicked at the wheel of the car, wondering frantically if she had forgotten it. She searched her mind for a mental inventory of all the things she had quickly thrown into a small duffel bag before she and Jackson had left a few hours before. Yet she could not remember if she had brought that simple, stupid piece of paper with her, and this, for whatever reason, shook Lisa's insides dreadfully.

Beside her, in the darkness, Jackson breathed softly. Lisa turned to look at him and, suddenly, was struck with a kind of near-hysteria. It coursed through her blood strangely, making her begin to giggle exhaustedly, and even as she convulsed with these spasms of mad laughter, tears formed in the corners of her eyes and spilled down her face. It was a strange catharsis, but it did make her feel slightly better. _What am I doing? What am I doing? Why, why, why...with the lights out, it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us, why why why why..._


	8. Chapter 8

Someone was calling his name from far away. He heard the voice and struggled to swim up and out of the heavy grogginess that was weighing him down. ''Jackson.'' The voice was female and familiar, gentle yet insistent. ''Jackson, c'mon, wake up.'' He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then forced his tired eyelids to open.

He was in a car, and it was night. Rain was tapping against the windshield. Jackson's body ached and his eyes felt grainy. Blinking, he looked at the person who had woken him. Lisa. But why was she here, and where the hell was he, even? Jackson tried to clear his head, tried to make sense of his surroundings. In that confused, delirious, still half-asleep way that people have after they are pulled from a deep slumber, Jackson blinked and mumbled disorientedly for a few moments, temporarily falling back into blackness.

''Hey, hey,'' Lisa shook him, ''look at me.'' His eyes opened and he looked at her sleepily. ''You're a nice dream.'' She laughed almost harshly upon hearing this. ''I'm _not_ a dream. C'mon. You've been sleeping for hours, and we're in...'' Lisa fumbled for a map, ''Christ I don't even know...oh yeah, we're in Georgia.''

''Huh?'' Jackson was now a bit more awake. ''How long have you been driving?'' Lisa tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. ''A whole hell of a lot of hours, it seems.'' She smiled at him. She looked exhausted, yet still gorgeous. ''We're at some kinda motel. We should stop for the night.'' Lisa glanced at the dashboard clock, which read 2 AM. ''Or, what's left of the night at least.'' She sighed. ''The good thing is, this place doesn't really look like it has a strict policy on reservations or check-in time.''

The motel that they were now in the parking lot of was a spectacular dive, with a horribly bright neon sign outside flashing the word ''vacancy.'' ''Ready?'' Lisa asked him. She had a resolved look on her face like she had made up her mind about something. Jackson was not sure what this was, though. Silently, he nodded, and they opened their doors and climbed out of the car.

Jackson's legs felt weary and achy and atrophied from being in one position so long. The various wounds on his body screamed in protest as he tried to stretch a bit. The night air was still terribly muggy and full of moisture, even though it was not raining where they were. Lisa reached into the back seat of the car, pulled out the duffel bag she had brought, and slung it over her shoulder.

She walked around to the other side of the car where Jackson was, and stood beside him. He regarded her with curious eyes for a moment, before asking slowly, ''Why?''

Lisa looked like maybe she didn't understand the question. However, she replied, ''Because I--'' she paused for a minute, and stared at him with a severe, almost mournful intensity, ''I wish things had been different.'' And that was all she said, but she put a hand lightly on Jackson's arm, leading him into step beside her. He felt his skin burn under the slight pressure of her fingers.

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They paused in the ugly lobby of the motel, with its vomit-colored carpet and peeling paint. Jackson had somehow, subconsciously began to lean on Lisa as they walked side by side through the doors. Only just then realizing this, he quickly pulled himself away from her with such force that he nearly knocked himself to the floor. Lisa was still silent. Wordlessly, she set her duffel bag on the floor and knelt down to rummage through it, obviously looking for something. A moment later, she straightened up with a long strip of steel blue silk fabric in her hands. ''Here,'' she said, motioning Jackson closer to her. The conspicuous white bandage was still covering the wound in his neck, and so Lisa wound the fabric around like a scarf.

''I actually think this is a good look for you, weirdly enough,'' Lisa gave Jackson a grim sort of smile. ''It makes you look sort of...European, maybe? Sophisticated?'' She shrugged, smoothing the fabric down one final time with her hand. Jackson felt, for whatever reason, that he might die. It was the strangest sort of feeling. A full-bodied shriek of such total, sick desperation that was so intense it might have the ability to completely stop a human heart from beating, freeze blood to stone inside veins, forbid lungs from drawing in breath. He could feel it, yes, he was just going to fall to the floor, down onto this ugly carpet as a stone dead corpse. Cause of death, ladies and gentlemen, appears to be...kindness.

She was not supposed to treat him like a human being. He didn't deserve that. Mutely, Jackson followed Lisa over to the front desk. A sleepy-looking man with graying hair and a horrible complexion started talking to her about something. Jackson was not even really paying attention to what they were saying, he was focusing on the awful feeling he had swimming through every part of his body.

''Ok, thank you,'' Lisa said to the tired gentleman, filling something out on a slip of paper and then accepting a small key. ''Sleep well,'' the man murmered in a worn, robotic monotone. Lisa nodded, adjusting the bag on her shoulder, and then turned and began to walk toward the corridor where there was an elevator. Jackson silently walked a few steps behind her. Lisa punched the button and shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for the elevator to stop in the lobby.

''Looks dangerous.'' She grinned a bit. ''I wonder if we can trust the cable in that thing?'' A small _ping_ sounded, and two ancient doors rattled open. Lisa and Jackson stepped inside. The doors closed with the same exhausted noise, and the elevator lurched upward. She didn't look at him the entire time. In fact, she did not look at him at all until they were standing outside the door to the room that they would have to share. Jackson still felt that ferocious, death-like agony all through himself. It seemed to worsen every time he looked at her. He was literally going to fall to pieces, and he could not stop it. Every piece of him was simply going to turn to dust and scatter all over the carpet.

Feeling dizzy, Jackson leaned against the wall, noting that it had been repainted several times; beneath the latest coating of peeling green paint, there was a layer of yellowish-white, and even beneath that was a layer of sky blue paint. ''Jackson,'' Lisa's voice sounded as if he were hearing it through a long tunnel. There was a dull ringing in his ears. ''Jackson!'' more insistent now, and closer, her voice was. He blinked at her. Lisa swung the door open. ''Get inside.'' He was almost dead, he was almost dust, how could he move? Her arm was around him, then, and somehow, his half-dust feet were moving into the room. He eventually found himself laying flat across a mattress.

There was a cool hand on his forehead, then a murmur of ''shit.'' Mumblings of ''burning up,'' ''fever'', and several choice swear words in various combinations were the last things Jackson heard before falling into complete and total unconsciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

Back in Lisa's apartment, the phone rang insistently. Nobody was there to pick up, except the answering machine. ''This is Lisa Reisart, I'm not in, please leave me a message, and I'll call you back.'' _Beeeeeep. _''Hi, Leese, it's Cynthia again.'' The voice sounded even more nervous and small than usual. ''I've been trying to call you all day...god, I'm so worried. I heard that...that _he_ somehow got out of the hospital. Lisa, I'm freaked. I tried to call your cell a million times, but it keeps coming up unavailable. Please just let me know you're ok.''

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In a small restaurant in Miami, a little girl sat at a table across from an ugly young woman with an overbite and stringy hair. The woman glared at the child, who glared back at her with a sullen look of defiance. ''Beck, we're not going to do this again.'' The child, Rebecca Carson, was what some people would refer to as ''difficult.'' Her father, who was a psychiatrist in Naples, Florida, called her ''anal-retentive.'' The fact of the matter was that Rebecca seemed to have been born 40 years old. She was ridiculously adult; neat, tidy, almost neurotic. She could also come across as bossy and tiresome. The ugly young woman was her nanny. She was sent by Rebecca's father to pick the child up at the airport.

The ensuing mess there, however, the nanny had not anticipated. Cops and even FBI interviewing hysterical passengers, general chaos, and yet, in the middle of it, a small eleven-year-old girl standing very calmly and placidly, dictating everything she had witnessed to a police officer who was listening with rapt attention.

Now, two days later, the nanny, who's name was Judy, peered across the small restaurant table at her young charge with obvious disdain. Judy narrowed her eyes at Rebecca. ''Eat your salad.'' Rebecca, however, had recently read a newspaper article about an e-coli outbreak caused by a bag of contaminated raw spinach. This had given way to a kind of pathological fear of salad greens. The child stared stonily, pushing the leaves around on her plate. She speared a tomato angrily with a plastic fork, and found herself thinking about the pretty lady from the plane, wondering where she was, and if she was ok.

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It was now nearing seven o clock in the morning, and Lisa was Somewhere in Georgia, in a motel room with a man who made her feel stronger and more conflicting emotions than she thought herself capable of having. He, this man, Jackson, was lying on the motel's crappy, uncomfortable bed, soaking wet now that his fever had finally broken.

He had given Lisa one of her worst nights in recent memory. Burning up, thrashing, kicking, and yelling delirously for hours and hours, Lisa had no idea how to help him. She was no doctor, and she certainly couldn't call for one. Luckily, the motel seemed to be backwoodsy enough that nobody asked real important questions--but at a hospital, that was another story. How the hell could she explain the situation without sounding completely mental?

Around 5 AM, it seemed to have gotten the worst. Lisa was digging her fingernails into her palms until they formed little half-moon slices that seeped red. Jackson was swinging in and out of consciousness, eyes rolling round sickeningly in his head. Lisa was white with terror. _What if he's in...what was that called? Septic shock? When a wound became infected and blood literally turned into poison? What if he died? What if he died...right here, right in front of her?_

He was mumbling words and phrases, some entirely incoherent, other times a name would be muttered and even yelled with such clarity that Lisa felt like a knife had been thrust right through her heart. It was her name. Whether he knew it or not, he was calling for her. ''Fuck it.'' Lisa said. She had no idea to whom she was speaking, probably to the small and whining voice in the back of her mind that told her she was wrong. Lisa climbed onto the bed beside Jackson, and put her arms around him, anchoring his body to hers forcefully. ''C'mon Jackson.'' She said this insistently, running her fingers through his hair, and over his face. ''You're _not_ going to die as long as I'm right here. There's not a chance in hell I'm going to let you. You brought me here, I'm here. You wanted me here, I wanted me here.''

He probably couldn't hear her, but Lisa did not care. ''You wake up, you son of a bitch. This isn't how you die. Don't take the easy way out. I'm right here. I'm not leaving. This is what we have, for better or worse. You and I are caught up in something, and this isn't how it ends. Wake up.''

She was holding him more tightly than she'd ever held anything in her whole existence. _No, no, no. _Lisa tried to will some of her life force into him through her fingertips. _Live, live, live_. Any small part of her that had felt any sort of hatred or anger towards Jackson had vanished long ago. Instead, there was a strange kind of closeness, a connection, a need. In most women's lives, there was one defining relationship that, for whatever reason, whether it lasted or not, became the relationship that all others after it were measured against. For some women, it was the guy they lost their viriginty to. Or their first _real_ love. After the events on the Red Eye flight, in that moment when Jackson was being wheeled away on a stretcher, Lisa looked at him and she _knew. _She had known him for only a few hours, yet it seemed a thousand lifetimes. He was it. In every man she ever met after, she would always see him; always haunted by those same eyes. She wished morbidly in that moment that, if she could not go with him, he should have killed her.

_Live, live, live. It doesn't end this way._

Soon, the thrashing died away and the fever broke, leaving both Jackson, and Lisa, who was still clutching him, soaking wet. Lisa cried with hysterical happiness, muttering _thank you, thank you, thank you_ to whatever god had answered her strange prayer. Jackson breathed evenly. Sunlight was sliding in through the blinds on the window, making patterns across their bodies on the bed.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Hey all, sorry about the big delay in updates...this is for all the nice people who reviewed and asked for more. Love you guys.

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_For about five quiet minutes, give or take a few, in the morning as the sun continued to climb higher in the sky and filter in even more strongly through the dusty, worn blinds on the motel room windows, a man and a woman lay in bed together. In their sleep, they ceased to be the people that they were the day before, and the future held its breath silently in waiting for the people that they would become today. Everything was hushed and still. Maybe they were frozen in these few quiet minutes. Time mattered little, there were no agendas, no governments, no guns or knives or pens, no deception, no airplanes. _

_This man and woman were sleeping, now, after a long and terrible night that faded into a morning exhausted with relief. They were both covered in scars, visible and invisible ones that they had given each other. _

_Fate, it seemed, decided to be kind and give them this much---these few frozen, silent moments when they simply existed. Nothing else was needed, no hate, love, future, past, consequences, words, decisions...just quiet. Just a man and a woman in bed together._

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Light slowly swam into Jackson's vision as he slid out of the inky blackness that had consumed him for what seemed like years. It took him several long moments before he had blinked himself completely awake, and much longer before his mind could register his surroundings. His eyes felt sticky. His body was exhausted, his clothes were plastered to him with sweat. His skin felt both warm and cool at the same time--a very unsettling combination. And yet, an odd contentment seemed to have crawled inside him and took up residence while he slept. It was an alien thing, contentment. It felt foreign. It felt like cancer.

Jackson looked around, then closed his eyes again briefly against the brightness of the room. He was in a hotel, lying on a bed. The room was cheap-looking and very ugly. Memories began to bleed into his consciousness: soupy, blurry, muted images--Lisa's apartment, a car, Lisa, the lobby of the motel, Lisa, pain, 3 layers of peeling paint all in different colors, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa... He could not be certain, for a few delirious, spinning moments, if half of his memories involving her were of actual occurrances, or were just the strange desires, dreams, and hallucinations of a very sick man's mind.

Oh, but this, now, was not a dream, he was certain. Jackson was awake and Lisa was laying beside him on the bed. Her eyes were closed, long eyelashes fanned out beautifully against her pale face. She breathed evenly, in and out, her chest rising and falling hypnotically. She looked so gentle and utterly delicate in sleep, the very picture of feminine beauty and sweetness. Looking at her in that moment, nobody could ever possibly guess the frighteningly deep well of strength and determination contained within her. Nobody else...except him.

He had seen her under the worst sort of pressure imaginable, in situations that would have broken a lesser person. He had been a player in that dark game, he had been an instrument of destruction, he had forced her to make terrible choices. Somewhere, though, through the thick, ugly mess of his own weaknesses, he had seen her bravery, and her goodness.

Jackson realized that Lisa was holding him. Though still seemingly asleep, her grip was surprisingly firm. Her arms were locked around his upper body, and one of her legs was draped over his. It didn't seem sexual, really...his first thought was that she was holding him so closely to keep him safe. And he **did** feel safe...oh god, he hated himself for it...but it was wonderful. Like nothing could touch him, not even the cruel Fate that always seemed so very, very eager to bring the sky crashing down upon him, raining destruction.

He closed his eyes again, which was just as well, because then Lisa stirred beside him, and awoke. Jackson didn't think he could look into _her_ eyes, just yet.

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Lisa was awake. The pillowcase that her head rested on was made of a scratchy, awful fabric. She was still wearing jeans and a tank top. She could see lines of sunlight streaming in through the blinds, and within the light she could see tiny specks of dust floating almost prettily, almost like they were alive, like insects.

Her arms were around Jackson, still, the way she had fallen asleep after being awake in terror for so long, so scared that he might die. Somehow, Lisa knew that he was awake and aware and ok, even before she had opened her eyes.

Now she sat up in bed, letting go of her grip on Jackson, untangling her leg from his, letting her arms fall away from him...and feeling strangely, desperately empty for a brief, flashing moment as she did so. Only when she let go of him could he bring himself to look her in the eyes.

''You're alive.'' She told him this very matter of factly, but her voice was slightly hushed, which made the statement sound almost awed.

''Why?'' Jackson didn't even realize at first that he had spoken, that the question could be so despairing, sound so tired and dragged and sad. He was sickened and astonished that the voice belonged to him. He realized that this was not the first time in less than 24 hours that he had asked that question, admitting to her, to himself, and to the world that he did not deserve to live.

''Because I wanted it.'' Lisa said this like she understood all his hidden dilemmas, somehow. His feelings of worthlessness and powerlessness. She said it like she knew he was beaten; this was no longer up to him. She had decided. She had not let him die. Now, in some strange way, he was hers, she owned him entirely. Jackson wondered how he should feel about that.

She looked straight at him. ''We should keep moving. I'm not really certain to where yet, though.'' Lisa sighed, then asked, ''Are you going to be ok to travel some more? You promise not to...ah...almost die on me again?'' A small ghost of fear leapt in her eyes, but vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Jackson shook his head numbly.

Lisa climbed off the bed and crossed the room. ''God, what a disgusting place,'' she said, looking around and shaking her head in slight revulsion, ''I miss the Lux. Big gaping hole in the side and all.'' She fumbled through the bag she had packed and pulled out bandages and antiseptic. Then she moved back over to the bed where Jackson was still laying. ''Don't give me that look,'' she told him.

Jackson wasn't aware that he was giving her any kind of Look. He was too tired and confused to give her a Look. Maybe he'd lost control of his facial muscles, too. That would be fitting.

She sat down beside him, slowly and carefully removed his shirt, then delicately started to pull the white bandages away from his skin. Her fingers were soft and cool. Really, the whole thing would have been marvelously sensual had the situation not been so damned depressing and strange. Lisa started humming again, some song Jackson didn't recognize. She always seemed to hum when she was concentrating.

''I wish I brought my Ipod,'' she said, suddenly. He didn't say anything, and Lisa didn't seem to mind that he didn't say anything, so Jackson figured maybe she was just thinking out loud to herself. But then--''Does it hurt when you get shot?'' she asked, then hurried to add, ''I mean, obviously it _hurts_, but how badly? On a scale of one to ten? Maybe you're used to getting hurt alot, though, so...'' her gaze flickered briefly over the dozens of faded scars that covered the skin of his arms and torso.

''I hate getting shot,'' Jackson said. His voice sounded very blank and cold, like naked metal. ''And I hate shooting people. I could kill anyone in any number of other horrible ways, ways that might not even occur to most people. But no matter how much I want them dead, I'll only shoot them if it's my absolute last option.'' He realized then that he had maybe given away too much...this wasn't really what she had asked.

''It hurts alot,'' he continued. ''The first thing you feel is the impact, it knocks you back. And for a split second, you're not really sure what happened. Then you realize. And then, depending on where you're hit, and provided that you're not already dead of course, _then_ the pain really starts, and just continues to build and spread.'' Lisa finished taping on a new bandage. Her hands shook slightly. ''It's unbearable,'' Jackson added.

Lisa's fingers lingered for a moment on his chest, right over where she had shot him. Then she pulled her hand away, asking, ''Is it easier to get stabbed?''

Jackson rolled his eyes. ''Yes, absolutely. I _much_ prefer getting stabbed, it's _highly_ preferable, particularly when I'm stabbed in the neck with pens...that's always a good time.'' He couldn't resist that. He grinned at her, but it was an ugly, breaking sort of grin.

''Well, I...'' Lisa started to say, but then stopped. She'd at that moment removed the bandage from his neck. Her expression was completely unreadable for a few seconds, then she said, ''It's healing fine.'' A few more seconds passed, and then she asked, like a small child in kindergarten who wants to know everything, ''Well...did that hurt? Alot?''

Jackson thought for a moment. He considered telling her, 'yes, my god, of _course_--it hurt like hell.' She'd stabbed him in the neck with a pen, for chrissakes. It was creepy and completely unexpected; undoubtedly the most bizarre injury he'd ever recieved and probably ever would recieve--it would leave a fascinating scar that would tell a fascinating story. His voice would probably always sound slightly raspy, like he'd smoked three packs of cigarettes a day for about 50 years, but...

''No,'' he told her. ''It didn't hurt at all.''


	11. Chapter 11

A/N Oh my God, it's an update! I'm sorry I took so long…It's been kinda crazy. Love you guys!

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Jackson, for whatever reason, was becoming very fond of sleep. He supposed that it had something to do with oblivion, with escape. Escape into a strange world of dream images, a world which made as little sense as his waking one. The comforting difference, of course, was that dreams were not real. A bullet in a dream couldn't kill you; food in a dream wouldn't fill you up. A kiss in a dream would be without consequences. None of it mattered, because none of it was real.

The motion of the car, a warm breeze blowing in through the open window and ruffling his hair, and the sound of the radio had lulled Jackson into a kind of murky trance, and then at last into complete slumber.

Soon, sleep became dreams. Jackson walked down a hallway in this dream, with rows of doors on each side. He reached out to open one, when he heard a voice say '_'__psssst__!'' _like someone was trying to get his attention. Jackson looked down. The voice belonged to that annoying little blonde girl from the plane, the one who had tripped him.

''What?'' he asked her irritably.

''I know something you don't know,'' she said in a childlike sing-song. A deceptively sweet smile curved the corners of her mouth. ''What is it?'' he found himself asking her. Even in a dream, nothing from this child would bode well for him, Jackson could tell. Strangely, she was somehow symbolic of the punishment he knew he deserved.

Dream Rebecca pointed down the hallway, toward several doors. ''I think we need to take a look at our options,'' she said, her voice suddenly grave and solemn, ''You've been without them for too long.'' She began to walk, motioning for Jackson to follow. As he fell into step beside the little girl, she began to speak again.

''See this?'' she said, pushing open a door to reveal a smoky room full of men in suits sitting at a round table playing a card game. ''God does not play dice with the Universe,'' Rebecca quoted Albert Einstein, ''but these men play cards with your lives. And when they come for you, you'll be sorry. But better to be sorry when they find you, then dead before you had the chance to run.'' She pulled the door closed. ''And you get points for running, by the way,'' she added, ''because you _are_ human, after all. You just needed someone to make you realize that. She saved your life.''

''She?'' Jackson echoed, following Rebecca, who had started to walk again. ''You'll see,'' she replied, again in a small, sing-song voice, almost like a gentle taunt. The girl pushed open another door. Jackson shut his eyes. He didn't want to see this. ''Shutting it out isn't going to make it go away,'' Rebecca told him, ''All these years, it has only made it stronger.'' Jackson opened his eyes slowly, forcing himself to look.

It was the house he lived in as a child. His mother and father were standing in the living room, in the middle of their fatal argument. Pieces of thrown, broken furniture lay scattered around them. ''I'll leave!'' Jackson's mother was screaming at his father, ''I'll leave and I'll take Jack with me! I'll---'' Jackson saw the gun, and the horrible, empty look of absolute hell that had taken hold of his father's features until in those few awful seconds he no longer looked human. He heard his mother screaming, begging, saw fear so pure and raw, so unlike anything he ever wanted to see again. Jackson closed his eyes as the gun fired. He reached out and closed the door, knowing what would happen next.

''Why did you show me that?'' he asked Rebecca in a quiet, strangled voice. ''It was killing you,'' she told him plainly, ''Because you won't let yourself understand that it wasn't your fault. And that you aren't him.''

Jackson was silent, doubtful. He continued to follow Rebecca down the hallway. Light streamed from under the door at the very end. She gestured, meaning for him to open it. The room was bright, with lots of colorful paintings on the walls, and nice, comfortable-looking furniture. Lisa was sitting on one of the couches, a glass of champagne in her hand. She looked relaxed, wearing jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Music was playing from a stereo.

'_There is no pain, you are receding. __A distant ship's smoke on the horizon.__ You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I __can't hear what you're saying.'_ 'Comfortably Numb' by Pink Floyd. Jackson recognized it. He watched as Lisa got up from the sofa to change the station. ''You know,'' she said, ''I am _sick_ of that song!'' She looked up and pointed at Jackson. ''And _you_ especially should be sick of that song.''

She looked down again and continued to fiddle with the buttons, switching stations. 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen began to play. Lisa looked a bit more satisfied with this choice. ''It'll have to do for now,'' she told Jackson. ''I would have preferred Stevie Nicks, but oh well.'' Lisa shrugged. Then she smiled at him. ''It's so good to see you!'' she exclaimed, her face bright, like she really was happy that he was there.

''I'll tell you a secret,'' she said, walking across the room, ''It was getting very lonely here. Running for your life is so much better than standing still forever. At least you're moving!'' Lisa put her arms out and spun in a circle like a little girl trying to make herself dizzy.

Jackson was suddenly awake and disoriented in the passenger seat of the car, next to Lisa. ''I'm so sorry,'' she said with a very apologetic look on her face, ''we just went over a huge pothole. This road sucks.'' Jackson blinked. ''It's ok,'' he said. His voice sounded gravelly and hideous. It didn't seem to bother Lisa, though. She just asked, ''Did you have a good rest?''

The puzzling dream was still fresh in Jackson's mind. He nodded. He felt like he'd gleaned some sort of huge insight that he didn't understand, like finding a scroll that held the secrets of the universe in alien glyphs he had no idea how to decipher. ''How late is it?'' Jackson asked Lisa, too tired and perplexed to glance at the clock on the dashboard himself.

''Three in the afternoon,'' she replied, ''and we'll be in North Carolina by tonight if we keep driving. Here,'' she reached into the back seat and grabbed a bottle of water. Handing it to Jackson, she said, ''I don't want you to get dehydrated.'' Mutely, he accepted it from her, unscrewed the cap and took a sip. This seemed to appease Lisa, because she reverted to discussing travel plans, or lack thereof.

''I think we should head east,'' she told him. ''Why?'' Jackson asked. Lisa hesitated for a moment, then said, ''Um…an angel appeared to me in a dream and told me that we should go east.''

Jackson blinked. ''An angel?''

Lisa nodded. ''Yes, he was an angel. Except that he looked just like….David Bowie.''

Jackson raised an eyebrow at her. ''I see. So…we are going east because..'', he was trying to make sense of this strange new development, ''you had a dream in which an angel appeared to you and told you that this was the way we should go?''

She nodded again, looking pained.

''And this angel looked just like David Bowie?'' he finished.

Lisa sighed almost mournfully. ''I know it's ridiculous. That's why I didn't say anything back at the motel.''

But Jackson only shrugged. ''I guess it's as good a reason as any. At least now we kind of have a destination.''

''And maybe next time, when you warn me that I need to flee because my life is in danger, you'll think it through a little bit first, so I'm not driving aimlessly, taking travel directions from Ziggy Stardust.'' Lisa started to laugh, and laughed so hard that tears formed in her eyes.

When she calmed, she said to Jackson, ''There is one thing I worry about, with us being on the run like this.'' ''What?'' he asked, scratching absently at the bandage on his chest.

Lisa reached over and slapped at his hand. ''Leave that alone. What I worry about is that well, when you came to my apartment, you said that they were after us. Now, it bothers me that I don't know how far behind us they are, or if they know exactly where we are right this second and are just waiting for the perfect moment to kill us. It's the not knowing that's upsetting to me. The not knowing exactly where we're going, or what we'll do when we get there, the not knowing who is watching us, stalking us…'' Lisa shuddered.

''I mean, you stalked me for months and I had no idea. What exactly do they want? Who _are_ these people that you worked for? What is their goal?''

Jackson thought for a minute. ''I'm not sure of their ultimate goal,'' he said. ''They have a lot of agendas, personal and political, sometimes both. There is a kind of hierarchy, and I wasn't on the very bottom, but I wasn't near enough to the top to really understand anything. I just did what they told me. I took the assignments I was given and carried them out, without caring. It was a job, nothing more. And as for what they want with us? They want us dead.

''I messed up on the last job. Keefe is alive. And now, he's more heavily guarded than ever, which makes getting rid of him extra difficult. You know too much. Originally, you were just a pawn. They, and I, made the mistake of expecting you to go along. And then, like I told you, I would walk out of your life. Both you and your father would be safe. My intention all along was only to scare you, never to hurt you or kill you. But my bosses could care less about human life. And it's easier for them to simply dispose of anyone who may know anything, or who might get in their way again.''

Lisa, who had been quietly listening to all of this, asked then, ''But why…I just really want to know…what made you want to…get into that line of work in the first place?''

Jackson shrugged coldly. ''It's what I'm good at.''

''What is?'' she asked him.

''Killing people,'' he replied, narrowing his icy eyes at her.

Lisa didn't look frightened at all. In fact, she looked slightly amused. ''Uh-huh,'' she said. ''But you didn't kill me. You said you were never going to. And though you were responsible for setting up Keefe's assassination, you weren't going to kill him directly.''

''What's the difference?''Jackson asked her, not quite believing that they were having this conversation. ''Were the men who blew a hole in the side of your hotel _really_ the ones who are guilty? Or were they just following _my_ orders? And am I less guilty because _I_ was following orders, and because I didn't sneak up behind the guy and slit his throat? No, I wouldn't have killed you. I couldn't have. But I _have_ killed people, indirectly and not-so-indirectly.'' He sighed.

Jackson was quiet after that for a few minutes, thinking deeply. A car horn beeped. They had hit some traffic, and nobody on the road seemed to be appreciating this. He wondered briefly what it would be like, to be upset over something as mundane as traffic.

''I'm sorry I got you into this, Lisa,'' he said. Jackson had spent years never apologizing to anyone, never being sorry for a damn thing, never caring, never allowing himself to feel. And then he met her, and all he seemed to want to do all the time was apologize and apologize, as if telling this woman how sorry he was would somehow clear his conscience, give him a clean slate in this life and the next. It was pathetic and ridiculous.

''Don't be an idiot,'' Lisa told him, in a tone that implied that she was somehow as guilty and responsible as he was. Then, in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, she said, ''I'd rather be here.'' She blinked, and a tear might have fallen, though Jackson could have been imagining it.

''I feel alive, somehow,'' Lisa continued, ''Running for your life is better than being stuck, standing still. Even if I don't know where the hell I'm going, at least I'm moving.''

She quickly and suddenly switched on the radio, as if she wanted to drown out words that had already been spoken.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N I'm so sorry that this story seems to take me forever to update, I know it's not fair to you nice people who are reading and reviewing, but I haven't forgotten about it, and don't intend to. Thanks again for your patience and support.

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Lisa woke to the sound of rain and a song in her head. This song was 'Don't Dream It's Over' and the lyrics never failed to chill her, for whatever reason. They'd pulled off the road for a few hours to sleep briefly before driving on. Lisa was feeling a strange kind of urgency in her blood, a need to keep moving, an intuitive warning against stopping anywhere for too long.

Jackson was asleep in the passenger seat beside her. While he slept, Lisa noticed, exhaustion and anger and despair somehow morphed and merged to paint over his features a pale fragility so intense that she almost feared to touch him because he might shatter into a billion pieces.

He breathed softly. He didn't even look real. Too-long hair hung in his face and covered his eyes like a curtain, as even in dreams he tried to hide. Jackson's eyes were mostly icy blue, sometimes growing so pale and bright that they nearly glowed. But now and again, Lisa noticed, some of the ice would melt, and they would become a gentler, deeper, more watery shade of blue. And perhaps out of fear that water equaled tears, Jackson would then freeze those eyes again into even stronger ice, desperately, constantly dreading warmth.

Lisa closed her eyes again, listening to the sound of Jackson breathing and the sound of the rain on the car roof. The sky outside the windows was an angry gray. Lisa shivered, trying to fight back the building sense of Something Bad moving closer and closer on their heels, gaining and gaining in momentum, so much faster than she was. She cracked an eye open slightly and looked at Jackson, wishing that he was awake so she could talk to him and ask him stupid questions like what his favorite city was and if he'd ever had a dog. Lisa reached over to him and held onto the sleeve of his shirt. This was somehow a comfort, a connection. She rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes again.

Inside his dream, Jackson was begging. He couldn't see the person to whom he was pleading; there was only a shadow, huge and cruel. Jackson wasn't begging on his own behalf, though, not pleading for his own life, but for a life somehow far more valuable. There was the aura of a terrible choice hanging in the air—the sense that a life-altering decision had to be made. He felt naked grief and fear within this dream; it was a gray, sucking ache, like being buried in thick clay. Like the weight of heavy stones.

_'__'Don't hurt her! Don't hurt her! I'll do anything, anything, __anything__…!'__'_Jackson screamed and screamed while the shadow merely chuckled. He screamed himself awake, thrashing and kicking. Someone was on top of him, trying to get him to stop moving.

''You're going to hurt yourself!'' a voice protested firmly. Hands caught Jackson's wrists in an effort to hold him still. ''You were dreaming—it's not real. You're _safe_.'' The voice became less insistent and gentler now. ''You're safe. Stop.'' He did.

Jackson calmed enough to see clearly. The first thing he saw was beautiful green eyes, then soft skin and full lips. The car was stopped, rain pounded against the windshield. The weather outside was menacing, dark and howling with anger. ''You're _bleeding_ again,'' Lisa said, sighing. ''You pulled at those stitches. You're never going to heal at this rate.''

''I'm never going to heal _at all_, Lisa,'' Jackson mumbled with cold despair, suddenly realizing that the words were true. ''Don't you get it? Don't you see?'' He tried to move, but every small motion was painful, and Lisa was still sitting on top of him, pinning him down. ''Move, Leese, come on,'' he said, almost begging. Jackson hated how pathetic he sounded.

''Are you sure you're not going to hurt yourself?'' she asked, looking at him very closely, trying to climb inside him with her gaze. ''How can you be so sure I'm not going to hurt _you_?'' he said, some desperate attempt to freeze himself. The safety of ice was disappearing. He felt himself beginning to fall through. He'd drown. Damn her. Damn her for not killing him. Damn him for not killing Keefe. Damn his mother for not killing his father or at least running while she still had the chance. Damn this fucking hand of Fate that seemed to hate him so very much.

''Just stop it, will you? _Stop_. You are _not_ going to hurt me. You _can't_. See this—'' Lisa pulled down the front of her tank top to expose the ugly scar marring the perfect skin of her chest—''you didn't do this to me. Not the you that 'gets the job done' and doesn't care, but _you. _The guy I talked to in the airport. The guy I had drinks with. The guy with the pretty eyes. That's _you_. And you could not have done something like this.'' Tears pricked at the corners of Lisa's eyes as she gestured to her scar, running her fingers over the raised pink line.

''This was evil. This was painful. This is a tangible reminder of a horrible, degrading experience that taught me about fear and hate. You, sir,'' Lisa said, still gripping Jackson's wrists and gripping insistently, ''_annoyed_ me. And you continue to annoy me. This situation makes me furious. Your fucking bosses make me furious. My dad pisses me off with his overprotective crap. Irate guests at my hotel aggravate me to no end. But I can handle all of these things. This scar taught me that I _can_ choose. In any situation, I can choose to react. I can fight. I don't have to be a puppet, or a victim. And if life, or Fate, or what-fucking-ever decides to give me a _really_ bad day when I meet a really great guy and he happens to have a rather unconventional line of work that involves threatening me and smashing me into walls, then I'm going to _choose_ how to handle the situation. And I'm still choosing. I'm choosing, for better or worse, to see the good in you, to see the potential that's still there. So just…trust me and stop shutting me out. Stop pretending that I'm your enemy. Stop forcing yourself to hate me.''

She released his wrists. Something like terror swam over Jackson's face as if he was a drowning man and his only lifeline had been severed. He blinked, feeling the ice in his eyes begin to melt, and turned his face away.

_--Flashback—_

_'__'I have to assume she's going to read that.'__'_

_'__'Read what?'__'_

Why, why, why did she have to be so smart and strong? Why did he feel so completely divided? Jackson had a job to do and this woman was making it insanely difficult, but simultaneously he had a remarkably deep admiration for Lisa, for her bravery. He had never felt so at war with himself. _I'm so sorry, Leese._

Their heads smashed together in a lightning bolt of blinding pain. Jackson had long ago learned that no matter how many times you head butt someone and knock them out cold, it always hurts you as well. No calluses develop. You just learn to take the pain and stay conscious.

She never saw it coming. Eyes closed, skin pale, her head tipped back and her hair spilled down. Jackson hated seeing her like that. And he hated himself. _I'm so sorry._ He leaned her head against the seat and smoothed back her hair, the gentleness of his own actions making something begin to ache inside him. _Sweet dreams._ The pain in Jackson's head was sharper than usual. Blood ran down his forehead. He reached up, and then pulled his hand away in unsettled shock. He'd never bled before.

_--End Flashback—_

''So, what now?'' Jackson's voice sounded hollow. There was no threatening edge to it at all, not even a false one, just true weariness and confusion. ''If we can't pretend to hate each other, then what are we? It was so much easier before. Me bad, you good, us against each other. You win, because good triumphs over evil, or so they say.''

Lisa shook her head. ''Nothing is _ever_ that simple, and you know it. What if…what if there was no assassination plot. And we just happened to be standing in line together in an airport, just happened to be on the same flight, and just _happened_ to be seated next to each other…what then?''

Jackson shrugged. ''Then it would have been a fucking serendipitous romantic comedy, and silly, stupid, implausible things would happen and we'd wind up together and happy in the end. But that's not the way it was written. And that's not the way it happened.''

''But it's also not as simple as good versus bad. It's confusing.'' Lisa sighed. ''So now it's just you and me, neither of us all good or all bad. We just _are_. There aren't any scripts, or roles assigned to us to play. Now it's up to us. We can decide who we want to be to each other. Start over, in a sense. Rewrite destiny, or whatever it is.''

Lisa climbed off of Jackson and back into the driver's seat. He felt like a blank sheet of paper trying to recall the feel of words and what they should say. Jackson had lost so many pieces of himself, hid them in favor of this crushed mask.

''So…''he asked her after several moments of numb contemplation, ''what do you want to be?''

Lisa looked closely at him, then pulled her gaze away to stare out the window at the thrashing rain. ''I want to wait and see what I become'', she said.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N I am so very sorry for the outrageously long spaces in between updates; I've been writing my thesis and it's taking up a lot of my time and energy. But I really do love this story, and I am going to finish it. I want to thank my wonderful readers for their constant support and encouragement. Here is an extra-long chapter for you guys; I love you all.

She went out to get some air. It happened because of something that mundane, in one single brief instant when she was feeling almost safe, walking more slowly than usual, contemplating the sky and the sun and feeling the breeze, looking at the persistent little flowers pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt. Her guard was momentarily down and she was very nearly smiling. She never sensed the man approaching quietly from behind.

He trusted that they were safe. And that was the flaw that undid them; his allowing himself a few moments when he stopped running and dreading. Those few moments when he believed that Fate was not all-powerful; maybe Fate was even a myth. Maybe he was in control of his own life after all, and they could rewrite their story and be whatever they would become.

But he was so naïve. Nothing is ever that simple.

4 Hours Earlier

''We need to get out of motels, I swear,'' Lisa told Jackson as they walked down yet another ugly corridor with peeling wallpaper and unnatural-colored carpeting, ''or at least stay someplace nice, like the Hilton.'' Jackson smiled lightly at her; smiling still felt odd, it felt like he was trying to wear new clothes that fit wrong, or breaking in a new pair of shoes.

''Why don't we just flee the country,'' Lisa remarked, only half-joking. She brushed a lock of hair off of her forehead and hoisted the duffel bag she was carrying higher up on her shoulder. ''You can pick where we go, as long as it's nice this time of year. And we can pretend that we're tourists, and I'll be very annoying and loud and point at everything and take lots of pictures. And then you can pretend you don't know me, because I'm being so embarrassing.'' Lisa meant all this to be funny, but somehow it made her stomach hurt. Maybe because it really would be fun and maybe because it could never happen.

Jackson didn't say anything. Lisa felt like giving him a good shove, but she didn't because his stitches hadn't been pulled out again recently and she wanted to keep it that way. So instead she just patted him on the shoulder in an awkward, friendly sort of way that he found very comforting, but he didn't say so. He still didn't really know how to say much to her that wasn't empty threats or existential rants and self-pity. How did normal men and women talk to each other? He had forgotten completely. But then again, they weren't normal men and women, were they?

Jackson was unaware that he had started to very quietly hum a song; this was a habit that he had picked up from Lisa, who was constantly humming something. The woman loved music. Now, Jackson wasn't even sure what song this was, but he had heard it once and now it was caught in his head. Lisa knew it, though. It was ''The End'' by the Doors. ''Jeez, could you pick a _more_ ominous song?'' she asked him. ''As if I wasn't wigged out enough already by this freaky motel.''

''I didn't know what it was,'' Jackson admitted to her. ''You can sing something else, then. Something more cheerful.'' Lisa shook her head. ''It doesn't work that way. Once a song sticks in your head, it's incredibly hard to get it out. You can't just decide to replace it with something else; that has to happen naturally. It has to do with neurology, or something. It's complicated.''

''I think you made that up,'' Jackson told her. ''I think I didn't,'' she replied. ''I think I learned it from years of experience.''

He made a face at her. ''You're strange. I need to try to kill girls that are more normal.'' Lisa stuck her tongue out at him. ''You're ugly. And you didn't try to kill me. Besides, I always carry a pen on me somewhere, now.'' ''You're such a brat.'' Jackson said, rolling his eyes.

''Oh, you have no idea,'' she replied, grinning momentarily, then paused.

''Are we having a normal conversation?'' Lisa asked him. There was an expression of surprise on her pretty face. ''I think we might actually have been flirting, but then again I'm not sure,'' Jackson answered. She shook her head. ''God, I hope not. That's too much to deal with right now.'' They continued to walk again, neither one speaking, both of them thinking. Lisa stole a glance over at Jackson as they walked. He wasn't ugly. He really wasn't. Before the episode on the plane, when they'd been having drinks, she thought he was very good-looking. Then circumstance made him ugly and horrible. Now he looked good again, and Lisa didn't want to think too much about it. But now it was like a song in her head, the way he looked and the way he'd changed and the way she felt OK around him and liked having him there. She tried to force it all away, and replace it with thoughts that were safer but it wouldn't happen.

They paused in front of a door, room 27. Lisa sighed and shook her head dramatically. ''This is such a terrible omen,'' she intoned gravely. Jackson was confused. ''What is? The god-awful paint on that door?'' ''No, the number of the room,'' explained Lisa. ''Twenty-seven was the age that most of my favorite musicians were when they died.''

Jackson gave her a look which suggested that she was a ridiculous, overly-superstitious person. ''Well, it wasn't the age that most of my favorite musicians died, so it's only a terrible omen for you. Twenty-seven could be my lucky number, for all you know.'' Lisa looked hopeful. ''Is it?'' she asked him. She had the prettiest eyes; Jackson was realizing this more and more now that he didn't have to waste all his energy on trying to hate her.

''Yes,'' he replied, even though it wasn't, even though he didn't have a lucky number. ''So I take it as a very good sign.'' Lisa nodded and opened the door. ''We need to get somewhere, though, I'm serious,'' she said as they walked inside, ''Even if we don't hide out in some exotic foreign place, we've got to have a more concrete destination. And David Bowie hasn't been giving me any more insights, so I'm at a loss,'' she added with a smile.

The room itself was actually not that terrible, Jackson realized. It was larger and more nicely furnished than many of their previous rooms had been. There didn't seem to be any cockroaches, either, which was a plus. Lisa seemed to think that this was an improvement as well, but she wasn't entirely satisfied until she had inspected the bathroom. Emerging, she admitted, ''Ok, this is definitely a step up.'' She nodded towards the TV. ''This one might actually _work_. But if we get cable, then I will know for sure that I'm dreaming.''

Jackson was sitting on the edge of the bed. Lisa noticed that he was still too pale and too thin, and his hair had grown too long and wild, but no, he definitely was _not_ ugly. And the song played on, caught once again in her head, just when she thought she'd begun to forget it. He seemed less desperate, less unhappy. Jackson turned to look right at her, sensing her eyes wearing holes in him where he sat. When he did so, Lisa felt the weirdest chill along her spine, feeling for some inexplicable, strange reason that in that single instant, she was really seeing him for the first time. It almost knocked her back, the emotion was that startling; like déjà vu so strong it is disorienting.

''What?'' he asked her, noticing that an odd expression had suddenly come over her face like a cloud crossing the sun. ''Are you ok?''

''I'm fine,'' Lisa told him, regaining a composure she had just realized she briefly lost. ''I'm going to take a shower. Are _you_ ok?'' Jackson sighed, the small hint of a smile curving his lips. ''Yeah, Leese, I'm fine.'' He shook his head then, and looked at her again. ''I just realized,'' he said in a voice that was almost too quiet, ''how weird it feels, calling you that when we're not enemies.''

''I know,'' Lisa said, her voice equally soft, so soft that the words almost disappeared as they were spoken, like light snow on a too-warm day, dissolving before it had a chance to touch the ground. She looked like a statue, standing in the doorway, a beautiful cut of marble. ''Do you want to just forget it then?'' he asked, forcing himself to look away from her, to look at the carpet, at the wallpaper. They weren't ugly anymore, though. This was all wrong. The room should be ugly, the situation should be ugly, and Lisa should still be beautiful, but all of her feelings towards him should be ugly, and he should be feeling ugly inside until he drew his last breath. But that wasn't happening. Things were so beautiful and alright suddenly and it was all just so very wrong.

''Forget what?'' Lisa asked, seeming slightly confused. ''Calling you 'Leese','' Jackson explained. ''Do you want me to stop? Would that be just…easier all around?'' ''No!'' she replied, a bit too forcefully, or so she felt. Then, more softly, ''No, I like it when you call me that. I always sort of did,'' she admitted. ''I mean, not when you were smashing me into walls and threatening me and all that….but generally, what I mean to say is that I like the way it sounds. From you. Especially now that you mean it, you know? Because now we're sort of…what? Friends? Allies?''

She moved out of the doorway and sat beside Jackson on the edge of the bed. He meant to move away from her, but for some reason he stayed still. She was quiet for a moment, absolutely silent. Their breathing was audible in the room. ''We might never be ok,'' she finally spoke, after a few moments. ''There is something so wrong with me. And I don't even care.'' Lisa started to laugh. It was the only thing she could think of, the only outlet for her strange, conflicted emotions. She reached out and held on to Jackson's arm again, awkwardly; it seemed that was the extent of the physical contact she'd allow herself to have with him.

''I'm not going to hurt you, you know,'' Jackson explained to the beautiful, laughing woman holding onto him, yet keeping her distance. Lisa shook her head, trying to pull herself together. ''I'm not worried about you hurting me, I've told you that before,'' she said, drawing in a calming breath. A resolve look came over her features, and she pulled Jackson a little closer to her, wrapping her arms more completely around him and putting her head against his shoulder.

''Am I hurting _you_?'' she asked him. He wasn't hurt at all, just slightly terrified. Her hair smelled so nice, and her body was so warm, and very strong. Jackson wasn't really certain quite what to do, because he felt that anything he _might_ possibly do would lead to absolute disaster. He didn't know why or how, only that it would, because disaster was all he deserved. ''No,'' he replied. She was still for a moment, and then she said, ''I'm sorry.''

''For what?'' Jackson asked her. Lisa meant to say something, but instead, on a strange impulse, she turned her head slightly and briefly pressed her lips against the ugly scar on his neck. He was totally silent after this unexpected gesture; the kindness of it almost destroyed him. ''It didn't hurt,'' he said after a few long moments. He'd told her that once before. It seemed like the thing to say, she always seemed so weirdly intent on apologizing for it, as if he hadn't deserved that injury, and a hundred more. She was leaning her head on his shoulder again, and he could feel her breathing, deeply and evenly. Jackson thought she might have fallen asleep, until she said, ''I don't want to admit this, because it feels too…well, I guess it feels like it should be wrong, but I don't want to move. Right here, this is the best place I've been in a long time.''

''Well, it's a much better motel room than we're used to,'' Jackson attempted humor to add a little levity to the situation. Lisa smacked him lightly on the knee. ''You know what I mean,'' she said. He could feel her smiling. ''Yeah,'' he sighed. ''I do. That's the hard part. I don't want to move, either.''

Three men sat in a discreetly parked car with tinted windows, having a discussion. ''Well?'' asked the man in charge, who sat across from the other two. ''They're inside,'' one of the two answered. His name was Gray. He was a large and muscular man, with a closely shaved head and deep set brown eyes. ''As soon as she's alone, we'll grab her.''

The man in charge sighed disdainfully. ''Please…your language is so…brutish. You will _bring_ Lisa to me, and then you will go and collect the boy.'' His cell phone rang, and he raised a finger indicating that the two men should silently wait. ''Yes,'' he answered, listening briefly. ''That's…such wonderful news. At last.'' He closed the phone and then said to the other men in a deeply satisfied voice, ''Keefe has been taken care of.'' The two men nodded their approval. ''As for Rippner and our dear Lisa, you're absolutely certain that they are unaware of your presence?'' The man in charge asked this of the two, and they nodded again.

''Alright then,'' he said, leaning back against the upholstery and closing his eyes briefly. ''Now we wait.''

They finally moved apart, they should have stayed together, resting awkwardly in each other's arms. But she went outside to get some air, to walk around in the parking lot. The sun was out; for once it didn't seem to be raining. The air felt so nice on her skin. She felt so peaceful. Lisa turned her face up towards the sun and then a sudden pinch in her arm blotted out the light and the world around her fell into darkness.

Gray moved quickly, lifting her limp body into the car and climbing in after. They quickly pulled away. ''The drugs will wear off in a few hours,'' he said to the man in charge, ''she'll be groggy, but fine. Flint is collecting Rippner.'' Flint was the second man. The man in charge nodded. ''It won't be necessary,'' he began slowly, ''to extend the same…delicate courtesy to the boy as we have shown to our Miss Lisa. There's no need,'' he continued, ''to be…kind, if you take my meaning. He doesn't deserve it.''

Gray nodded. He understood. He had once admired Jackson Rippner. But then he got sloppy. Then he became more trouble than he was worth. And the man in charge wasn't fond of having to clean up messes.

Lisa's head felt horribly heavy. It seemed to take her forever to open her eyes. At first, she wasn't sure where she was; she thought for a moment that she had fallen asleep on the bed with Jackson, and had only dreamed of walking outside. But no, after blinking several times and trying to force her eyes to adjust, Lisa found herself reclined in a huge, comfortable armchair. She was in some sort of a room, very large and ornately furnished. It seemed that she was somewhere inside an old, expensive mansion, at least that was her first impression. And she wasn't alone.

A man was sitting in an identical chair facing Lisa, watching as she struggled to wake up. ''Well, hello there, my dear,'' he said to her. ''We meet at long last. I'm sorry that you had to be brought here like this, it was rather cowardly, drugging you and hauling you off, but you see we couldn't have you putting up a fight. And I know how capable you are of that.'' He smiled.

The man had a long, pale face with a leering sort of mouth, but he wasn't terrible-looking, just odd. He was very thin, with prominent cheekbones and longish blonde hair. Lisa guessed his age at mid to late forties. At one time he might have even been considered handsome, but something about him suggested that he'd led a harsh and ugly life, and this had ground out any overt attractiveness. For an instant, the man almost reminded Lisa of Jackson, right after he'd escaped from the hospital.

''Who are you?'' she asked him. Her voice sounded thick and awful. ''Where am I? Where's Jackson?'' The man sighed and shook his head. ''Please dear, one question at a time. First thing's first, though. Are you alright? The drugs you were given can cause some discomfort after they wear off, headache, dry mouth, and so forth. Would you like something to drink?''

''What? No! I mean…I want some damn answers! And why do you care whether I'm comfortable or not? Aren't you the one who wants me dead?'' The man's eyes widened. ''Dead? Of course not. What sort of monster do you take me for?''

Lisa's head was spinning. ''But Jackson said that they…that you…were after us, because he failed to assassinate Keefe.'' The man scoffed and waved a hand dismissively in the air. ''That's a trivial matter, now, it's been taken care of.'' Lisa gasped, disgusted. ''You mean…Keefe is dead? And his family? When did this happen?'' The man studied his fingernails. ''Shortly before you were brought here, and no, his family was not killed. Keefe, I'm afraid, met his end in a very terrible car accident. His wife and children are grieving, yes, but very much alive. It _is_ a tragedy, of course, to die in such a…mundane way after just narrowly escaping an elaborate assassination attempt.'' The man bared long yellow teeth in a twisted sort of smile.

''You're a lousy bastard,'' she told him. He chuckled. ''Of course I am, my dear Lisa,'' he told her, still smiling that rotten, nicotine-stained smile, ''but so was Keefe. The difference is that I admit it.'' Lisa glared at him. ''What did Keefe ever do to you? He was a good person!'' The man shook his head at Lisa, almost sadly, like he found her to be terribly innocent and naïve all of a sudden. ''No, sweet girl, he was not. He looked like a good person, dressed up so neatly and cleanly, tossing around his righteous political garbage. He was a sewer inside. I can't stand hypocrites. That's why I'm ugly inside _and_ out.''

Lisa sat quietly for a moment, seething but still confused. And her head really _was_ starting to hurt. ''Where's Jackson?'' she asked. ''Why does he matter so much to you?'' questioned the man, in an exhausted voice. ''The boy is an utter disappointment to me.'' Lisa ignored the first question, and asked, ''did you hurt him?''

The man stared directly at Lisa with sharp blue eyes, and then said, ''I'm tiring of your incessant concern for that worthless piece of shit, but since you do seem to care so much, I'll answer your questions if you answer some of mine.''

''And then?'' Lisa asked. ''And then we'll see where we end up. Of course, you aren't being forced to stay here, as you'll notice you aren't bound in any way, but fair warning, dear, if you do try to escape, this manor is very isolated, and there is a rather large, electrified fence surrounding the perimeter. And dogs, my sweet girl, very large dogs that won't be nearly as kind to you as I have been. They've been trained, you see, to be vicious. And I find that it is ever so much easier to train a dog to be vicious than a man, which is a shame. We are both animals, after all.'' The man looked at Lisa. ''Shall we begin?''


	14. Chapter 14

''What do you want to know?'' Lisa asked the man, who was sitting across from her, staring very calmly at her. It bothered her slightly, the way he seemed to regard her almost kindly. He was an evil creep, she was fairly certain, but it was still unnerving to sense that slight gentleness he was extending towards her. The man drummed his fingers lightly against the arm of the chair, thought for a moment, then said, ''I know that you had an extremely…unpleasant altercation in a parking lot some time ago.'' His gaze drifted to Lisa's chest, where a small portion of her scar was visible. She stiffened, then glared at him. ''You might call it that,'' she said in a low, cold voice.

The man nodded, looking almost sad. She wanted to pummel that sympathetic, pitying look off of his strange face. He spoke again. ''If you had the…opportunity to kill the man who harmed you in such a terrible way…and if it was certain that you wouldn't be caught, would you do it? Would you kill him?''

''Yes.'' Lisa replied, without blinking. The man let out a loud, ugly laugh. ''Of _course_you would! But you needn't worry about putting that certainty to the test, it's already been taken care of.'' She sat up straighter, shocked. ''What do you mean? How? Who killed him? Did Jackson…''

''Again with that useless trash!'' the man interrupted her, exasperated. ''When would he have had the time? In between escaping from the hospital and stumbling into your living room? You give him too much credit.'' Calming slightly, he asked ''Lisa, how long did Jackson say that he had been following you for?''

''Eight weeks,'' she responded, wincing involuntarily at the memory. It was during one of their more ugly encounters on the red eye flight that he had told her this bit of information. ''And has it ever occurred to you,'' the man continued, ''that perhaps….others had been watching you for even longer than that?'' Lisa eyed the man curiously. ''What others? You?''

The man started tapping his long fingers against the arm of the chair again. ''As I recall, it's still _my_ turn to ask questions. I promise I will give you answers, but first, there are still things I wish to know.'' ''Such as…?'' Lisa demanded, irritated. ''I'd like to know,'' he said, ''and please answer honestly—I'd like to know why you care so deeply for the wretched shit who tried to kill you.''

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Jackson was in pain, both physical and emotional. He wasn't strong enough to put up a decent fight before they knocked him out, but in those few moments before the blows caused him to slip into unconsciousness, the terror he felt was more awful than any torture he might experience. It was over, now. He was certain that she was dead. Now he was awake, aching and bleeding, tied to a chair, screaming for answers, demanding some sign that she was still alive and unharmed, somewhere. Nobody ever answered him, at least not with words, just more violence.

Finally, after what seemed like days but in reality was little more than two hours, Flint appeared in front of Jackson, shaking his head in disgust. ''You're pathetic.'' ''I know, Flint'', Jackson replied. ''Did you hurt her?'' Flint's hard dark eyes bore holes into him. ''Quit asking about your girl, or I'll have to continue hurting _you_.'' Jackson raised his head, ''Why?'' ''Doctor's orders,'' replied Flint. ''He seems to think that you don't know how to do as you're told. He considers this behavior modification.''

Jackson's expression was one of pure rage as he glared at Flint. ''Is he the one who took her?'' Flint looked irritated. He swung a fist out, it struck Jackson across the face with blinding pain. ''I'm tired of hitting you. When will you ever learn?'' Flint turned and began walking out of the room, but he said over his shoulder, ''He's right, you know. Dogs are so much easier to train. They don't ask questions.''

* * *

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''Why should I tell you anything?'' Lisa asked the man, who raised an eyebrow at her. ''I know, I know, _you're_ asking the questions now, but I have a right to know. Is this some sort of game? Why the hell do you want to know how I feel about Jackson or anything else, for that matter? Unless of course, you're just testing for some emotional weak spot that you can use against me. And really, how do you know that I'm telling you the truth at all?''

The man grinned, yellow teeth flashing. ''You are a most observant, intelligent woman, dear Lisa. And I respect you a great deal. That is why I am hoping that you will be honest with me.''

''If I'm not…'' Lisa began quietly, ''are you going to hurt Jackson?'' The man turned away from her for a minute, then stood up and began to pace the floor. He seemed to be considering something. Lisa noticed that he walked with a slight limp. The man paused after a few more strides and then said, ''You know, because I do respect you so much, I am going to explain something to you. And I am only going to explain this once, so make sure that you listen well. Until our discussion is over, however long that might take, I am going to reveal absolutely nothing at all to you about Jackson's whereabouts. For all you know, he could already be dead. Or, he could be alive, but barely. I could have guards torturing him round the clock in some remote location, or he could be in a separate wing of this very manor. Therefore, you have no way of knowing whether your answers to my questions are helpful or harmful to him, or if they even matter at all. And so, my dear, I suggest that you simply answer honestly. As I promised, I will allow you to ask me questions, but nothing more about that wretched boy. Are we clear on that, dearest?''

Lisa nodded.

''Well then,'' the man smoothed the front of his shirt and settled himself back into the armchair, ''I believe you owe me an answer.''

''I think that he is a good person.'' Lisa gave this answer to the man's question as to why she cared about Jackson. ''Is that so?'' he asked, cocking his head to one side. He seemed to be considering her response. ''Why do you think he is a good person? After all, his actions are those of a manipulative, violent criminal, one without any regard for those he might harm while getting the job done. Let's see now,'' the man began to count on his fingers, ''he threatened to kill your father, he knocked you out, slammed you into walls, chased you, terrorized you, broke into your house, chased you again with a knife, knocked you down a flight of stairs…shall I continue?''

Lisa shook her head. ''That's not who he really is. It was a role that he was forced to play.'' The man gave a dismissive snort. ''Do you really believe that, dear Lisa? Don't you think he had choices? We're not all puppets, we have free will.'' ''Jackson never seemed to think so,'' she replied, ''he was somehow convinced that this was all that he could do. He felt trapped.'' ''Well, then, I'd say those are his personal issues, but that isn't an excuse to go around without remorse, is it?''

Lisa wanted to scream, ''Well, what's _your_ excuse?'' but she remembered how testy the man became when she asked him anything. So instead, she replied, ''I don't know. I don't pretend to know why people do the things that they do, but I can choose the way that I react to those people, and those things. It all comes down to choices. He made some bad ones, but I choose to see the good in him in spite of that. And since I was one of the people harmed by his bad choices, I'd say I have the right to forgive him if I want to.''

The man's cool blue eyes widened in slight surprise, and then he briefly nodded. ''So, why didn't you just go along with what he wanted you to do, changing the room and so forth? Why did you try to fight back, even when you knew that your father's life was at stake?''

Lisa studied the polished hard wood floor for a minute while she recalled the events of the red eye flight, and all of the emotions that she had been feeling at the time. ''I guess I could have. But I don't like people fucking with me when I've been having a really bad day. And I'm not the type to roll over and take the bullshit that life sometimes hurls at me. I'm going to fight it all the way. I'm going to do what I believe is right, in spite of the obstacles.''

The man's expression had become one of amusement, but there was a slight trace of deep admiration there, and it bothered Lisa immensely. For one frightening moment, she thought he might lean over and kiss her. ''Well,'' he said, smiling a little, ''I think that you have earned the right to ask me a question. But please remember that there are certain questions that will remain unanswered.''

''Who are you?'' Lisa asked. She figured that this was probably the most useful bit of information to know, considering the circumstances. Still, she knew though this man seemed to value honesty, he wasn't going to be equally honest with her.

''I have often wondered that, myself,'' said the man, reclining slightly in the chair and putting his arms behind his head. ''I suppose you mean the facts of my life. Well, there are many of those. I'm a psychologist, or I was a psychologist; I received my PhD from Berkeley, but never practiced, at least not in the traditional sense that Berkeley intended. You see, I was always perhaps drawn too much into the darker side of my science, the way it could be used not to heal, but to control, to mold and manipulate. And some rather…unorthodox organizations with…questionable motives appreciated my interest and hired me to work for them. I helped these organizations to plot and to train. And I myself took on some assignments which required a more personal hands-on approach.''

Lisa looked sickened by these revelations. This seemed to disturb the man, and he instantly sat upright and gazed directly into her face, saying in an agitated, almost pleading voice, ''Don't look at me that way! You think I'm a horrible, soulless monster, and yet you love that hideous, weak boy---my worst failure! I can't stand hypocrisy….I've seen you look at him with the most impossible, revolting compassion and care, and now you sit in front of me making judgments about my character. Why is _he_ better? What makes _him_so much more human and worthy than me?''

This was an unexpected and unwelcome outburst, and Lisa was momentarily dumbstruck by the way the man had suddenly and inexplicably snapped. It seemed, though, that she had discovered an emotional weakness in her captor, and so she filed it away in case this knowledge might come in handy in the future. ''I believe,'' she replied slowly, folding her hands delicately in her lap, ''that it is still _my _turn to ask the questions.''

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His blood was all over the floor, Jackson noticed. Splashes and dots of it covered the expensive hardwood like a macabre Pollock painting. His head ached so terribly that he was amazed he hadn't blacked out again. This time, it really was over for him. _Well_, he thought to himself dully, _I got what I wanted; I got what I deserved._ But somehow, it was more complicated. Because of all that had happened in the past few weeks, because of Lisa and her constant insistence that he was a worthwhile person, Jackson felt that he should be fighting harder to save his own life. Even if he didn't believe that he deserved to live, _she _believed that he did. And Lisa _was_ alive, Jackson was sure, if what Flint said about the Doctor was any indication. Jackson shuddered at the memory of that man, and all of the ''sessions'' that he had been subjected to with him. But he seemed to remember something he had heard; that the Doctor would never, even harm a woman, at least not physically. It had to do with a girl that he had once loved, who had been brutally murdered by one of his enemies. Apparently, this was part of what had sent him completely over the edge.

The Doctor loved to screw with people; it was like a game for him. He was a puppet-master, loving to jerk strings every which way and see how he could make you dance. A brilliant man and a perfect monster. Jackson knew, though, that Lisa was tough, mentally and physically. And she _hated_ people trying to control her or manipulate her. A smile crossed his face, causing brief agony. She would be fine. He wasn't so sure about himself, though.


	15. Chapter 15

Rebecca loved to torture her nanny. It was one of the few things that she had fun doing. She didn't know why; she didn't think she was normally a malicious kid. And her father the psychiatrist had even said to Judy, after she had told him that she felt Rebecca was a devil child bent on making her life a living hell: ''Rebecca is not normally a malicious child. She is very mature for her age, and this can sometimes be difficult, but it hasn't been easy for her, especially after the divorce…'' And then he would go on to list her many virtues, including Rebecca's win at the state spelling bee, her exceptionally high IQ and perfect grades, blah, blah, blah.

All of these accomplishments were so constricting. There was so much pressure to keep living up to everyone's increasingly high expectations. Sometimes, Rebecca just wanted to be a brat, to vent some aggression. She _was_ malicious in this way, she supposed, but Judy just made it so _easy_.

Now, they were in the car on the way to Naples, listening to a CD. Rebecca's favorite song ended, and she gleefully pressed the button to start the track over from the beginning.

Judy flipped. ''No, NO, NO! Beck, you have listened to this song eighty thousand times!'' Rebecca smiled innocently. ''But it's my favorite,'' she said sweetly.

''I don't CARE!'' Judy yelled. ''Your father doesn't pay me enough to cover all the medical bills I'm going to have after you make me crack up once and for all. I'm heading towards a complete mental collapse. I hold you solely responsible.''

That was fine with Rebecca. She turned up the volume and sang along. _'And I don't want the world to see me, '__cause__ I don't think that they'd understand.'_

''Oh my God,'' Judy said, clutching the steering wheel like she was trying to strangle it. ''I'm going to kill you. I am. And when they ask me why I did it, I'm gonna say, 'Officer, I'm not sorry, she drove me to it. She played 'Iris' about a million times, over and over and over…'' Judy burst into tears.

Rebecca smiled.

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''You've told me about your job,'' Lisa said to the Doctor, ''but what about your life? Your past. That's part of who you are, right?'' She figured that as long as she was being given the opportunity, she would dig and dig. Even if he was lying or giving half-truths, there were bound to be more nerves to strike in him. She just had to find out where the soft spots were.

''I grew up in Massachusetts, and my family moved to Florida when I was sixteen,'' the Doctor recited all of this information in a bored monotone. ''Later, I moved to California to go to school.''

''Do you have any family?'' Lisa asked him. ''Maybe, once,'' he replied. His face was utterly expressionless. She sensed that he didn't want to talk about that, and forcing the subject might go over badly. Lisa let go of it for now, and tried a different approach. ''Do you like music?'' she questioned casually, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and crossing her legs, hoping that she gave the impression of being comfortable and ready to listen without judgment. ''I'm not overly fond of it the way some people are,'' the Doctor responded. ''I appreciate that it takes a good deal of skill. I can play the violin. I don't like listening to it, though.'' That seemed to make very little sense to Lisa, but nevertheless, she nodded. Of course he played the violin. All crazy evil genius villains seemed to be able to play the violin.

''Well, why don't you play me something?'' suggested Lisa. That might buy her some time to think of a better tactic. She needed to get information, and her approach really wasn't doing the job. Or maybe it was. The Doctor looked rather pained at Lisa's request that he play the violin, his face grew even paler, so grossly white that for a moment he resembled a corpse. Then he seemed to regain quick control of himself and waved a hand in the air. ''I don't have a violin anymore. And besides, my dear, I'm very rusty. I've not played in many years. The racket would be just…offensive. You would hate it.'' He looked at Lisa in the strangest way then, almost as if he was talking to someone else, someone that he had known for years, a very old friend, or perhaps something more. Lisa cringed inwardly at the intensity of his gaze but gave no sign that it bothered her, or that she even noticed at all.

''You said that you had dogs,'' she began, attempting friendly conversation. ''What's your favorite kind of dog? I've never had one. My dad is allergic. I was always so bummed by that. All of my friends had dogs growing up.'' ''I don't have a favorite breed of dog,'' the Doctor replied. ''I don't keep them around for companionship. I like to study them. I appreciate them as a species.''

''Study them?'' Lisa echoed. ''What do you mean?'' ''Have you ever heard of Pavlov's experiments with dogs?'' asked the Doctor. He seemed to be genuinely curious; this was apparently a subject that greatly interested him. She thought for a minute, recalling introductory Psych courses in college. ''Um, I think so,'' replied Lisa. ''It had something to do with a sound….he taught the dogs to associate some sound with getting food. He conditioned their response.'' The Doctor nodded, looking pleased. ''I knew you were a smart woman. And you are correct. It was Pavlov, you see, who sparked my interest in behavior modification. I wondered if such techniques would have similar results in human beings.''

''Well,'' began Lisa, eyeing the Doctor, who motioned for her to continue speaking, ''I mean, that sort of thing can be helpful in treatment, depending on how it's handled. Positive and negative reinforcement and all that…it can help people improve themselves, if they're willing to make a change. Overcome an addiction, for example.''

''Yes,'' agreed the Doctor, ''I suppose it can help change people. Improve them.'' Lisa didn't think that this guy was the sort of cheery, overblown Dr. Phil type who was interesting in helping people help themselves. He seemed far more interested in creating people who suited his needs. He seemed to adore playing God. It bothered him to remember his own humanity.

''My dear,'' he said to Lisa suddenly, leaning over very close to her. She forced herself not to flinch or move back. ''I don't like people messing up my plans, either,'' he continued, ''I have bad days, too. And bad nights. Bad weeks, bad years.'' Lisa could see her own reflection in the Doctor's eyes; his face was that perilously close to hers. ''One of the things that causes me the most distress, but also intrigues and excites me the most is…the unpredictability of certain human beings. Certain….resilient….defiant human beings who seem to have a very strong…will….a deeply internal locus of control. I am….obsessed by the existence of such individuals.'' He pulled his face away from hers and rose from the chair.

''Please wait here, dear Lisa,'' the Doctor started for the door, saying over his shoulder, ''I'll be back in a moment.''

He left the room. Lisa took a deep breath, trying to will herself to be calm. Inside, she was utterly terrified, but had sworn to herself that whatever happened, she would do her best to not let the Doctor sense this. _Think about something else_, she chanted, _think about something else._ Lisa concentrated on mundane facts and bits of information she'd once heard. _The capital of New York is Albany. Most people assume __it's__ New York City, but nope, it's actually Albany. Seven times seven is forty-nine. If you mix yellow and blue, you get green. Paganini played the violin so well, people said that he must have sold his soul to the devil. In certain mythologies, even the gods were afraid of the Fates. Everyone was afraid of the Fates. Emperor Nero played the violin too, or was it the fiddle? Whatever it was, they say he played while Rome burned down._


	16. Chapter 16

Rebecca put her feet up on the dashboard. Judy would probably _have_ killed her, except for the fact that she was too preoccupied. The planets, it seemed, had aligned in such a way as to piss Rebecca's nanny off, and make her job even more difficult. After being caught in a horrendous traffic jam for the better part of an hour, the car broke down soon after they started to move again. A tow truck was called, and now Rebecca and Judy were waiting.

This stretch of time would normally have been a marvelous opportunity for Rebecca to invent new and interesting ways to drive Judy crazy, but the young girl was beginning to lose interest even in that. Her nanny was talking, thinking and planning out loud to herself as they sat in the dead, unmoving car off the side of the highway.

''Ok, now, we're obviously not going to get to Naples by tonight. We could go to a hotel, but your Aunt Gina doesn't live too far from here. I could call her. Maybe she'd let us stay there tonight.''

Rebecca brightened considerably. She loved her Aunt Gina, her father's adopted sister. She was half-Japanese, and had the most beautiful eyes and hair that Rebecca had ever seen. Aunt Gina had a really nice house, full of lots of paintings and statues. She wore black clothes, she had a pet lizard named Mojo, and best of all, she never asked Rebecca how school was, or congratulated her on getting straight As or getting first place at the science fair. Instead, Aunt Gina let her eat Fruit Loops and ice cream for dinner and watch whatever shows she wanted on her huge, flat screen plasma TV. Yes, Rebecca would most definitely rather go see her than stay at a hotel with disgusting Judy and her stringy hair.

''Call her,'' Rebecca said to Judy, then added, 'Please?'' She put on her headphones and stared out the window, at the cars moving slowly on the highway. Another traffic jam was building. Bunched all together, the cars were reduced to groups of headlights, like a swarm of fireflies. Rebecca could hear Judy talking on her cell phone. She turned the volume up on her IPod. She'd had it the whole time; she was mostly playing the CD to piss Jane off.

The young girl sighed, listening and looking at the thousands of headlights. _'When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am…'_ She really did love that song, though.

* * *

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''All right, dear,'' the Doctor announced, coming back into the room and extending a hand to Lisa, ''I think that is enough for right now. It's getting late, and you must be tired and hungry. Let's go for a walk. I'd like to show you my house; I'm so proud of it.'' Lisa was revolted by the idea of touching the Doctor, but she thought it best not to protest if she could help it. It was probably wiser to stay in his good graces, at least for the time being. She rose from her chair and slipped her hand into his, expecting his long pale fingers to feel cold and clammy. They weren't, though; his hand was surprisingly warm and strong, a strange relief.

She fell in step beside him, allowing him to lead her through a large set of wooden doors and out into a long hallway. He did have a beautiful house, Lisa noticed, with some incredible and also incredibly expensive-looking artwork in elegant frames on every wall. There were vases resting on impeccably polished furniture, and Persian rugs lying on the hardwood floors. ''How old is this place?'' asked Lisa, taking everything in as they walked. ''Very old,'' replied the Doctor, deliberately vague. ''_Where_ is this place?'' she asked, in a hopeful, quiet voice. The Doctor smiled and shook his head. ''Right now, my dear, location isn't important.'' It didn't seem to be. Lisa realized that she had not yet seen a single window in the entire house. She didn't even know what time of day it was. It was very disorienting, all of a sudden. ''I'll show you where you'll be sleeping,'' the Doctor said to Lisa, as they reached the dead end of a corridor, where there was a door. He swung it open and gestured for her to walk inside. The room was very simple, yet chic. All of the furniture was a dark mahogany, and there was a large queen-sized bed with white blankets and pillows in the corner. But still there were no windows. ''This is…very nice,'' began Lisa, who had begun to feel rather claustrophobic and panicked. Forcing herself to remain calm and civil, despite her uneasiness, she dared ask, ''but how long should I be expecting to stay here?''

The Doctor simply smiled at her again, and her heart sank like the Titanic. ''Right now, dear Lisa,'' he said, ''time isn't important.''

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The pain in his head lessening slightly, Jackson tried to figure out exactly where he was. He was tied to a chair in a very dim room with burgundy walls and hardwood floors. There were no windows, and no other furniture except for the chair to which he was bound. The color of the walls was a strange choice, but then again it probably hid blood stains very well, Jackson mused. He ransacked his memory for some bit of information about the Doctor that might indicate his motives, but Jackson figured he was probably acting on his sick compulsion to mess with people's heads. But why Lisa? What could the Doctor possibly want with her? Jackson didn't really want to entertain some of the possibilities; the man was a deranged individual with delusions of godhood. He shuddered to think of Lisa anywhere near him, but yet he trusted in her strength and intelligence.

The Doctor was rich, Jackson knew that much. He owned large estates all over the US and several homes in Europe. He loved fine art, supposedly, and also collected rare books. A real eccentric bastard. Jackson also recalled something about dogs---the Doctor bred and trained them. This had to do with classical conditioning and Pavlovian response. The Doctor was always obsessed with the idea of creating a perfectly obedient human being, of somehow beating the humanity and the self out of a person until they would respond to any command without thought to the consequences. He was the brains behind a number of the organization's more complicated assassination plots; the Doctor was like a chess prodigy with regard to strategy, he knew how to anticipate most people's behavior. Anomalies both enraged and intrigued him. He thought he knew exactly what made people tick, and when he was wrong….then he became dangerously curious.

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''Aunt Gina!'' Rebecca seemed less like a forty-year old and more like a normal little girl as she flew across the yard and into her aunt's arms. Gina swept the child into a tight hug. ''Hello, sweetheart! I've missed seeing you! And you've gotten so big!'' She held Rebecca away from her a bit and looked at her. ''Oh my,'' she said softly, ''you're becoming the spitting image of…'' ''My dad, I know,'' interjected Rebecca, making a face. ''Everyone always says so.'' Gina smiled at her niece, who said, ''and Aunt Gina, _you_ look just like Lucy Liu.'' The pretty, exotic woman sighed and took Rebecca's hand, leading her up the walk, ''I know, honey,'' she grinned down at the child, ''everyone always says so.''

Judy followed along behind, grumbling and struggling with the bags. ''It's alright, Judy, you don't need to bother with those,'' Gina called over her shoulder, ''I'll have someone bring them in.''

''I totally hate her,'' Rebecca whispered to Gina. ''She's so…difficult. I'd rather have a dog.'' Gina stiffened for a moment, then said in a serious tone that her niece had never heard her use before, ''I think that you need to give Judy a chance, Becca, and try to treat her with some respect. She's a human being. People aren't always exactly what you want them to be…and sometimes when you try to make them something that they're not….'' She trailed off, a strange, haunted look on her face. ''Aunt Gina?'' Rebecca asked, concerned and a little regretful. Gina shook her head, as if trying to shake out some bad memory. And then she was her old, smiling, beautiful self again. Rebecca breathed a little easier, and made a mental note to be nicer to Judy.

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Lisa couldn't rest in that room. She couldn't rest anywhere in the Doctor's windowless mansion, the place was driving her crazy. She didn't even know how long she'd been there; not only did the Doctor seem to have a pathological hatred of windows, but he apparently despised clocks as well. It was like being in the Twilight Zone, or Wonderland. Everything felt so upside-down and confusing.

She also hadn't seen another living soul besides the Doctor since she'd arrived. There were no phones, no televisions, and no computers anywhere, at least not that she could see. Lisa was entirely cut off from the outside world, with no way of knowing where in the world she was, or even the time of day. If she thought too hard about it, she knew she would start to panic, and if she panicked, then she wouldn't be able to think straight. So Lisa forced herself to breathe deeply, to concentrate on simple details, to take one moment at a time.

She abandoned the bedroom, and took a walk down the corridor. She wasn't sure exactly where the Doctor was, but she knew he was close. Apparently he trusted her enough to leave her alone, because he'd left her door unlocked. Lisa came to an open door towards the opposite end of the hall, and walked inside. It looked like a library; there were rows and rows of very tall wooden bookshelves and what seemed to be thousands of very old-looking books. But what caught Lisa's eye was a small table covered in framed pictures. Most of them were older photographs of people that she didn't recognize, many were black and white. One, though, was a more recent-looking color photo of a little girl with blonde hair. Lisa picked it up, studying the face more intensely. There was no question about it; the child in the picture was the little girl from the red eye flight.

''That is my niece, Rebecca,'' said the Doctor from behind Lisa. His voice startled her so badly that her heart nearly stopped. He moved around her and took the picture from her hands. ''She is…such a brat. But oh so intelligent. She won the Florida state spelling bee.'' The Doctor set the framed photo back down on the table and motioned for Lisa to sit down in one of the chairs in the center of the library. ''Rebecca is the daughter of my twin brother. There's a common mythology around twins; one twin is good, and the other is evil. It makes for an interesting story. I suppose if you want to stick with that formula, you might say that my brother was the 'good' twin. He and I both originally pursued the same course of study, but to slightly…different ends. He's a psychiatrist with a very successful practice in Naples. He has a very beautiful but very dumb ex-wife, Rebecca's mother, and a very beautiful but also very dumb new fiancée. Always the good twin.''

''Does Rebecca know you?'' asked Lisa, glancing again at the photograph.

''And do I send her birthday cards and see her at family reunions?'' asked the Doctor in an ugly, sarcastic tone. ''Of course not. She doesn't even know I exist. My brother, and what's left of the rest of my family, think that I died years ago. I even have a headstone in a nice cozy cemetery, just to keep up appearances. And now my brother is his own person, he has no mirror image running around causing trouble. But every so often, I do wonder what it would be like…to take over my brother's life. Just…quietly remove him from the equation and slip into his place. Treat his patients, be respected, sleep with his beautiful, moronic fiancée, pick his daughter up at school…'' He trailed off, and then looked at Lisa. She was forcing herself to not appear frightened or disgusted by the Doctor's remarks, but to seem like a compassionate listener. Like a therapist. She simply nodded and said, ''But you've obviously been watching your brother and Rebecca all this time. You knew that she was going to be on that flight.''

''It might have simply been coincidence, dear Lisa,'' the Doctor responded in his annoyingly vague tone. That tone always signaled that the conversation was finished, and it would be futile to pursue the subject. He gestured around the room. ''Do you like the library? I have some very old and rare volumes.'' Lisa shrugged. ''I was never much for classic literature,'' she said. ''Classic rock, yes, classic books, not so much.''

The Doctor looked like he was thinking for a moment, and then he motioned for Lisa to stand. ''I think that you need to have something to eat. And then, I'd like to ask you some more questions. But first, I have something to show you.''


	17. Chapter 17

A/N Wow!! It's an update!! Without months in between!! Thanks to all my amazing reviewers for your feedback and support, you know I love you guys.

Rebecca was happy. She'd just downed about five bowls of Fruit Loops and was now wandering around her Aunt Gina's large, gorgeous home. Sure, Rebecca's father had a great big fancy house too, but it was so _boring_. Just the normal, standard expensive-looking furniture and kitchen appliances. It was right out of a catalogue, screaming ''I'm rich and important, you're not; here: see what you're missing!'' But Aunt Gina's house was different. It was more unique. It had more integrity, somehow. Gina was an art dealer and also knew a lot about architecture. Her walls were covered in the most incredible, sometimes creepy-looking paintings. There were weird statues sitting on almost every table; the twisted little figurines seemed to be guarding the place. And photographs, too. Aunt Gina was great at taking pictures. She had elegant black and white snapshots of a Paris street that she'd visited a few years back, and also strange and spooky photos of a building that Gina said was the abandoned New York State Hospital.

Rebecca made her way up a staircase. The house had three floors, but she'd never been above the second level. Today, it seemed to be calling to her. She hesitated for a moment, though, realizing that it might seem like she was snooping around. But that was silly, Rebecca told herself. Aunt Gina had nothing to hide. And there was probably nothing much up there, anyway, just more paintings and photographs and statues stored away. Paused on the steps, Rebecca could hear her aunt speaking to someone on the phone.

''Yeah, Cynthia,'' she was saying, ''the damage _was_ fairly extensive, and there was some good furniture and art in that suite, but we'll see what we can do. Why are they making you handle all this? Where's that other woman…what was her name? Lily, or Lucy…? Lisa…that's it.''

Rebecca continued to climb the stairs. Aunt Gina sounded like she'd be on the phone for awhile. Judy was taking a nap. She was safe to explore for a while. And the third floor would probably be a big disappointment, anyhow.

He said that he had something to show her. Lisa shuddered to think what it was, but she continued to follow the Doctor down three flights of stairs until they reached what seemed to be a strange hospital-like compound. There were examination rooms on each side of the long, tiled hallway, complete with medical technology; some of it Lisa recognized, like MRI machines, and some of it she didn't, and for that she was glad. Several of the rooms had gurneys with restraints 

on them. There were also cold steel operating tables that glinted in the harsh, artificial lighting. Lisa almost threw up just entertaining some of the reasons why the Doctor would have such a facility in his home. She didn't want to know what went on down here.

The Doctor paused before a door on the right side of the hallway. They had been walking in silence, but now he spoke.

''Lisa,'' he began, then paused a moment, looking almost thoughtful. Some of the harshness in his face drained away briefly, like sand slipping through fingers. He seemed to want to ask her something, but couldn't begin to find the right words, and so he simply collected himself again, forcing any fleeting softness out of his features. Lisa's skin broke out into icy goose bumps, as in that moment, once again, the Doctor reminded her briefly of Jackson; both men had that same way of attempting to control their emotions and their expressions, and at times, both failed miserably, betraying something with a single glance.

The Doctor did not speak again, instead he opened the door and motioned for Lisa to walk inside. ''Dear girl,'' he said to her, perhaps feeling that addressing her by her name alone was too much of an emotional burden to bother with, though he wasn't even really certain why, ''this is one of my most favorite rooms.'' He walked inside after Lisa and switched on a light. ''But your Jackson didn't seem to like it very much.''

Lisa looked around. The room was very plainly furnished, seeming on the surface like a boring and ordinary room in any house. And yet there was, in the middle of the floor, what seemed to be a large, strange tank of some kind. ''What is….that?'' Lisa asked the Doctor in a quiet voice. ''That,'' he replied, with some amount of pride in his voice, ''is the final step in creating my assassins. It's an isolation chamber…became very vogue in the 1960s, along with LSD. Part of that 'consciousness-raising, break-on-through' bullshit. They used to be called sensory deprivation tanks, but in recent years it's been thought that the phrase had negative connotations; it smacked of torture.''

Lisa shuddered inwardly as she noticed that the Doctor licked his lips slightly when he said the word ''torture.''

''What,'' she began slowly and carefully, ''exactly do _you_ use this tank for?'' A smile twitched at the corners of the Doctor's mouth but he pushed it away quickly and said ''not breaking through so much as breaking down. You see, it is a bit like solitary confinement. There's water inside the tank, enough to float in. Once the tank is sealed, there is no light whatsoever. There is no sound. There is nothing at all, dearest girl, except the sound of your own breathing and your own mind. You are alone, floating in the darkness.''

He had a sick, faraway look on his face, like he was enraptured by the concept. Lisa broke the Doctor out of his trance by asking, in a voice slightly more cold and demanding than she had hoped, ''How long did you keep him in here?''

''Do you mean, how long did I generally force my patients to stay in the tank?'' The Doctor was being deliberately obtuse, and Lisa knew this, and he knew that she knew, but it didn't matter, because she still asked the question, despite whatever mind game he might be playing. Because she just needed the answer.

''No, that's not what I asked. I said _how long_ did you keep _him_ in here? I'm not asking 'generally' about your goddamn 'patients', you revolting excuse for a human being, I'm asking _specifically_ about one patient, and just so I'm _specific_ enough, I'm asking about Jackson. How long did you make him stay in that tank?'' Lisa's voice had begun to shake slightly with rage. She was dizzy from the effort of trying to keep her fury under control. Perversely enough, the Doctor looked rather impressed with her, and so he answered. ''_Specifically_, I kept your dear Jackson in this tank a great deal longer than I typically do—but it was necessary. You see, I had such…high hopes for him.'' He said this with an almost paternal sigh in his voice. ''I pushed him so much harder than the others because I knew that he had the potential to be the most ruthless, but…'' the Doctor trailed off and shook his head.

''There were just too many horrible things in his past that we couldn't erase. I thought that maybe I could take some of those incidents and use them to my advantage, making Jackson stronger, colder, and more obedient by somehow recycling all the angst and the fear that they caused and turning it into a kind of driving force. But my dear''—and then there came that weary shake of the head again—''the boy was so unpredictably weak. Something about this tank, whether it was the lack of light or the lack of sound, but some aspect of this treatment brought out some memory that was so god-awful and frightening that well…I fear it couldn't work exactly the way it was supposed to.''

Lisa's mouth was set in a grim line. ''But that didn't stop you from trying harder, did it?'' Icicles grew on every word.

''I thought,'' the Doctor explained in a voice that was infuriatingly apologetic, ''that by simply…extending Jackson's sessions that we might be able to push past the worst of his trauma, so that we could begin some cognitive restructuring, some re-direction of energies toward a worthy goal—''

''You mean by turning him into a killing machine,'' interrupted Lisa, full of fury.

''My dear girl, calm yourself. We just don't see eye to eye on the end result, that's all. Really, my experiments can have an enormous impact on behaviorism as a science. Really, I'm…just like Pavlov. Or B.F. Skinner. Or Milgrim.''

_You're Dr. Fucking Frankinstein_, thought Lisa, but she knew better than to say it. The Doctor was so damn convinced that his work was somehow justified, she let him rant on with his messianic delusions.

''It would have just been so…neat and clean, if it had worked out. You see,'' the Doctor turned his gaze to Lisa, ''you are partially to blame in all this, my dear.''

Lisa felt her stomach twist. ''Why? What could I possibly have to do with any of _this_?'' She gestured toward the room, the tank, and the Doctor himself as she demanded an answer. The Doctor decided to reward her with an explanation, she had been suitably patient, and so he owed it to her: ''The Keefe assassination was to be my greatest achievement. But it was not only an assassination, it was an experiment of sorts. Whenever I find that I am presented with the opportunity to kill two birds with a single stone, I always take it. I could use close quarters, such as an airplane, and evaluate stress levels and response. I could measure how certain people behave under extreme duress, when faced with an incredibly difficult scenario that will require harsh and terrible choices. What will they do?

''We had our eye on you for some time, dear Lisa, and right now I will not say how long or exactly why, but I while planning the assassination, I came to believe that this was my chance to use you, to see you in action, so to speak, along with Jackson. You were the perfect woman for the job since day one. I must tell you, dear, in the end you exceeded even my expectations. Jackson, however, did not. He failed catastrophically. I think that this is because he somehow developed feelings for you, feelings that complicated the job.

We told him to watch you for eight weeks. And while he watched you in those eight weeks, I was watching him, and now and again I would see something in his eyes that I knew I needed to destroy. And so I tried to destroy it, the way I continued to try to redirect all of his nightmarish memories. He spent days here,''—the Doctor nodded to the tank—''and in the beginning he would scream and scream and scream, like he wasn't even certain why he was so utterly terrified at all, but still the screaming would continue. Eventually, though—and this was really remarkable--after Jackson started watching you, in those last two months before the flight, when I was beginning to reach the end of my rope with him—he stopped screaming. He stopped fighting. We monitored his vitals, and there were moments when he was absolutely calm, like he was thinking of someplace wonderful and safe. Soon I understood that those were the moments when he was thinking of you. You see, Jackson came to see you as safe, and strong, whether he admitted this to himself or not.

''Naturally, this complicated matters, but I was intrigued. I had no time to train anyone else for his job, and the date was approaching. Everything was in place, and at least he wasn't screaming anymore. He seemed to be more obedient as well. In the end, I felt confident enough to let the assassination go on as planned. And these new developments, I thought, would add an interesting dimension to the experiment as a whole.''

Lisa could barely stand, now, but she forced herself to remain upright, though the sick nausea hitting her in waves was almost crippling. She could feel all color draining from her skin. She had had no idea that it was so complex. It was dizzying. For one moment, as she stood there, 

anger and confusion and disbelief washed away and a calm simplicity took its place. In that instant, everything boiled down to all she really wanted, which was to see Jackson and to hold him.

She said to the Doctor: ''I won't ask where he is. I promised you that I wouldn't. I want to know what I need to do to be able to see him again.''

''I beg your pardon?'' asked the Doctor, eyeing her strangely, as if he hadn't at all anticipated the question.

''I'm not here by accident. You need me for some reason. You want to study me and learn something from me? Fine. Shove me in that damn tank or some Skinner box, or whatever the hell else you want to do. Stick electrodes all over my forehead and monitor my brain waves, give me electric shock, I don't fucking care. You aren't going to hurt me, I promise you. I won't scream for you. I'll bite my own tongue off first. Get all the data you want. And then, when you have it, you will give him back to me. I know he's alive. Don't ask me how—I just know. It's women's intuition, and it's gotten me a hell of a lot further than male-driven fact-based logic. Tell me what I'm here for.''

Rebecca pushed open the door at the end of the third floor hallway. The air smelled stale up here, old and sinister somehow, full of decaying secrets. It looked like a spare bedroom. There were boxes piled haphazardly on the floor and bed. Rebecca could see that one of the box contained photographs. Interested, she knelt down to get a better look. Pulling out a pile of old pictures, she went through them one at a time. There was a black and white photo of Gina as a teenager with her arm around a man that Rebecca assumed was her father, in his younger years. But there was something unrecognizable in his face; his features were those of her father, but there was a look in his eyes that was different. It was a sharp, wary look, though the face was smiling. He looked harder and thinner and somehow…meaner and more intelligent than her father ever had.

Gina looked as beautiful as ever, but there was a strange imbalance to her smile, like she was trying to appear happy for the camera, but her eyes, which stayed slightly focused on the man she was posed with, were slightly haunted and grim. They were standing on a beach, and in the sky behind them, out at sea, storm clouds were gathering menacingly.

Rebecca frowned and put the picture down. She flipped to the next one, and paused. The photo was of the same man, the man she assumed to be her father, but this time his smile was more honest. He was standing next to a gorgeous young woman with a familiar face. Rebecca blinked. This wasn't right. It couldn't be her. This picture looked almost fifteen years old. The clothing and hairstyles spoke of time long past, and the film had been developed, because there had been 

no digital photography then. No, it wasn't her, but the woman in the picture bore a remarkable resemblance to the pretty lady from the red eye flight.

''What are you doing up here, Rebecca?'' Gina's voice startled the little girl so terribly that the photographs fell from her shaking hands and spilled onto the floor. Gina bent down and picked them up, saying softly, ''Oh, Beck, you shouldn't be seeing any of this. I don't know why I kept these pictures at all….too many ghosts.'' She smiled almost wistfully. ''That's the thing about having been an orphan, once you find people to belong to, you can't seem to let anything go. Even ghosts.''

Rebecca wasn't sure what her aunt was talking about, but she stuttered, ''the woman…the woman in this picture with my dad,'' she pulled the photograph out of Gina's hands and waved it in front of her face, gesturing to the frozen figures smiling, ''she looks like someone I met, someone I know…'' She was babbling now. Any trace of a smile vanished utterly from Gina's face. ''No, no, Rebecca.'' She brought a hand up to her forehead as if checking herself for a fever while simultaneously trying to regain some composure. ''You couldn't have met this woman. She was killed years ago. And that man isn't your father…Oh god, this was more than I planned for today. '' Gina sat down on the floor and motioned for Rebecca to sit beside her. ''We weren't supposed to tell you this, but I think now you probably need to know at least a little. Your father had a twin brother, and he died several years ago. The man in this photo was his brother. The woman standing with him was his girlfriend, and he loved her very much. And then something happened, I'm not exactly sure all of the details, but she was murdered by someone that your uncle knew….and after that he took his own life.''

There was something in Gina's voice indicating that the last part of her story was a lie, and that she knew many more details that she was willing to divulge. Rebecca could tell this, because as her aunt spoke, her eyes took on that same broken, fragmented look from the photo, betraying every forced and lying smile.


End file.
